Succession
by DracoNunquamDormiens
Summary: Three days after he turns fourteen, Sirius Black is called home. One month later, Orion Black is dead and Sirius must accept a title he's never wanted - and along with it, a nice fat bullseye on his head. Sirius realises why he wasn't allowed to turn down the succession: for that to happen, he must die. Not 24 hours later, he's considering it as an option. Warnings inside.
1. Prelude: Primogenitus

**Disclaimer:** The Holloway Rod was snatched up from TheDivineComedian's stash of dark magical artifacts. The Dog is inspired by Dai, my resident Padfoot, although he's spoiled rotten, so not at all like his fictional counterpart. Remuswolf is inspired by Tai, who acts like him a lot, and any injuries and pissing contests and raw meat quarrels are the result of careful observation of these two over the years.

* * *

 **About this fic:** This is a sister fic to Thirteen Moons and prequel to Runaway, and it's a five-parter in Sirius' point of view. It covers what happens from the last time Sirius sees Orion and until he returns to Hogwarts after the burial, so: **BLACK WARNINGS throughout** , their very special brand of child abuse is not really glossed over here and there's all sorts of other warnings ranging from suicidal thoughts, to self-harm, memory-tampering, denial, lots of teenage angst and physical and psychological torture like only the Blacks can dish out. Also, Sirius sometimes makes little sense in his perceptions and goes bananas a couple of times. So, basically business as usual at the Blacks.

It's an exploration into the whole "the Blacks think they're royalty" thing, only in the Runaway AU they actually kind of are, mostly because I like the idea of people grovelling at Sirius' feet and calling him Lord.

That, and I really, _really_ wanted to kill Orion in an ugly and nasty way and justify the whole tapestry burning thing and my take on Walburga going nutso thing, which are both major upcoming events in Runaway, but they're also largely brought about by the last few days Sirius spent around his loving and supportive dad in November 1973, which have been mentioned in Runaway already. It's basically not a happy fic.

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 **In this chapter:** Three days after he turns fourteen, Sirius Black is called home, allegedly to say his final goodbyes before he turns into a werewolf.

One month later, Orion Black is dead, and Sirius has no choice but take up a mantle he doesn't want, and along with it, a nice fat bullseye on his head. He realises why he wasn't allowed to turn down the Ring of the Blacks: for that to happen, he must die.

Not twenty-four hours into the Succession, he's seriously considering it as an option.

Life is unfair like that.

* * *

 **Dedication:** to all you Sirius fans who have stuck around with Runaway for so long.

 **Acknowledgments:** Again, thanks to TheDivineComedian for continuing to inspire me to write dark, nasty stuff and letting me use her Holloway Rods. And to Bambi59 aka Shayde123, for putting up with brain fries and having to read every last version of it and listen to me whine about stuff for days on end. These stories wouldn't even exist without her help, because I could never put my ducks in a row.

* * *

 **Succession**

 **By**

 **DracoNunquamDormiens**

* * *

 **Prelude: Primogenitus**

* * *

Three days after he turns fourteen, one Sirius Black is given special permission to go home by the host of St. Mungo's Healers coming by the Hogwarts Hospital Wing every day. They tell him it's so he can say his last goodbyes to his parents, or some such nonsense.

Sirius is tempted to laugh in their faces.

They claim they're here to help him, but he isn't fooled: they're experimenting on him.

 _At least_ , he thinks wryly, _they're being nice about it._

They are being nice, because they think he was bitten by a werewolf almost a month ago.

They're right, of course.

He _was_ bitten by a werewolf.

A very large, very annoyed one he's decided to call Moony, who comes around every spare moment he gets, usually bringing a stack of notes for him to study. Sirius thinks that it's Remus's way of getting revenge on him, for not telling him that he managed to become an Animagus before he visited him in the Shrieking Shack on the last full moon.

In his defence, Sirius wanted it to be a surprise. And Remus is _way_ too territorial.

It clearly _backfired_ , but it doesn't make it any less brilliant in his eyes; he's worked his arse off for it since First Year, and the Dog is, hands down, the best that's ever happened to him. Even if there'll be hell to pay for it, for the past three or so weeks Sirius has successfully managed to ignore the rising dread in the pit of his stomach, and the Healers at least, keep him nicely distracted.

They are being _especially_ nice to him, because they think he'll turn on the full moon, and the Ministry's Disposal Squad will kill him then.

Sirius believes that if they want to kill him sooner, sending him home is just about the surest way to do it.

He has told them — all of them, except for his closest friends — that it was a dog, but they just pat him on the head, or ruffle his hair — he _hates_ that — and give him condescending looks, as though he's in denial.

If he tells them the truth, though, Remus will be put down and he'll get sent to Azkaban for being an unregistered Animagus. So, obviously, he maintains left, right and centre that it's a dog bite and they're blowing it out of proportion, acts the part of the perfect little patient, lets them poke and prod and stick silver bars into him, and builds up wall after wall to get past the daily Legilimency tests Dumbledore puts him through — arguably the riskiest part of this whole deal.

Sirius is well aware Dumbledore suspects it might have been Remus who bit him.

Again, he wouldn't be wrong.

They're friends, after all, and knowing him, it's not really a stretch to suspect he's gone to the Whomping Willow to see why Remus vanishes under its roots once a month. So far, Sirius is fairly certain he's given the Headmaster nothing, but every morning Dumbledore pops by, still unconvinced.

Sirius does the only thing he can, feeds the Hogwarts Head images carefully crafted from recent memory during the long hours spent preparing for these sessions.

The moon is waxing, and the Healers still prod and poke at the now rather lumpy, mostly-closed wounds on his side, check that the various other cuts where they put in the silver are healing — which hurts like Mother — and while that alone proves he's not about to turn into a wolf, they claim they still can't be sure. There is, perplexingly, still too much canine in his bloodstream, and to be honest, Sirius thinks it's really interesting to find out the Animagus transformation goes _that_ deep.

He is as curious as the Healers to see the results of the host of magical tests, and though most aren't what he'd call comfortable by any stretch, he doesn't mind putting up with any of that, he really doesn't, and he has the School Nurse to thank for it — Poops realised early on he isn't about to turn, and the instant the Healers clear off, she treats him more like a guest than a patient. She even lets Remus take him for walkies every day after lunch. Sirius suspects she puts rather too much trust in his friend, but he celebrates every minute he gets to be outdoors, gets to put his tail on, gets to remember why he's doing this at all.

And yes, it's _all_ worth it.

Until those friendly Healers announce on Bonfire Night that he "gets to" go home, as if it's a treat.

 _Then_ he begins to worry.

If he weren't a Black, he wouldn't be allowed to leave the Contagion Room at all. The Healers would fear he'd run away or suddenly develop the urge to chew on innocent passers-by, but when Orion Black orders something, the entire world is expected to bend over backwards to give him whatever he wants, expediently and without question.

And the world does exactly that, without fail, so even if he's mostly confined to the Contagion Room and generally considered to be a danger to be around, they decide to bend the rules to breaking point and let him go to London for a day or two.

They could just have asked Father to come over. They probably even did, but Sirius is well aware what he's wanted in London for and why. It would _not_ go over well in public, and the explanation for it is painfully simple: Father has found out that Sirius won't turn.

Sirius is not really surprised.

While he's known all along his parents would find out along with the rest of the world, Sirius has been counting on getting this last week to prepare for it. He has to admit, to himself if no-one else, he's not ready to see _them_ again. It's too soon.

He's sure Regulus told them; not out of any desire to land him in the hot seat — and there is just one such seat in Father's Library — but because his little brother, for all that he's the perfect Slytherin, is incredibly naive still. He sees Father and Mother and their immediate family in a different light, he thinks the world of them and trusts them blindly.

Incidentally, Sirius is sure Regulus also still believes in Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny.

He simply has no idea, and Sirius won't be the one to set his perceptions straight.

No matter how much Sirius would like to, he can't even bring himself to be angry at Reggie. Because it's _Reggie_ , and Sirius would gladly go through Hell and back for him, like he's done all his life. Or because of him, like he suspects he will in a few moments' time.

He suspects Mother shed a crocodile tear or two and Reg caved, like he always does. Probably thought he was doing all of them a favour, interceding for his big brother. _Helping_. Sirius can't fault him for it — Regulus is not the bloody Black Heir. He lives by a different set of rules, and in the House of Black, that means he might as well be living on a different planet.

Reg's responsibilities to the House of Black limit themselves to surviving Sirius in case he leaves no offspring and marrying well. Sirius sometimes wishes their roles were reversed; he doesn't ever want to become The Black. Reg would shine in that position. He is the perfect wizard for the job.

Sirius… _isn't_.

Even Gnasher, Father's personal elf, knows it. He brings a package of clothes with him — Gryffindor robes are not allowed anywhere in the Black household — and makes to help him change.

"Get out of here, I can manage," Sirius snaps, tosses the package on his bed.

Gnasher grits his teeth loudly and gives him an insolent grin. Sirius aims a kick at the elf, and it's gone with a sound like a firecracker.

Sirius glares at his clothes as though they're to blame. He's definitely not cut out for this. _He's_ just The Fuck-Up who ought to have died, preferably before he learnt to speak and shattered the Blacks' hopes and pride. He'll be reminded of the fact as soon as he gets these blasted dress robes on — no casual attire for him, like, _ever_ — with this butt-ugly green tie Mother sent over.

He's pretty sure it'll choke him if he lingers even a second after he's put it on, so he doesn't touch it until he's fairly sure he's got a good enough grip on his Occlumency walls — a cinch — and a good enough grip on his temper — flimsy at best, _dammit._

Launcelot's claws are digging into his shoulder. He's tempted to leave him here, but he can't; so far, the owl has been the only one who's managed to keep him from accidentally going dog, and even though Sirius would like nothing more than sprout fangs and give Father a good bite in his smug face, he can't risk getting found out — forget Saturday's moon, he'd get killed on the spot.

Just when being him had begun to be _fun_.

He only takes his wand, muttering furiously to himself when he has no choice but to knot the poisonous-looking tie around his neck — it's worse than a choking tie, the pattern of thorns embroidered in silver thread isn't there just for decoration.

" _Blast_ ," Sirius hisses furiously, now deciding he'll go without the damned thing and trying to undo the double Windsor, but of course, it won't give.

He's so absorbed trying to loosen the tie, he doesn't realise Remus is standing not six feet away, probably wondering why Sirius looks like he's about to spend the afternoon at the opera rather than the forest, like they usually do.

"I bet it was Regulus," he informs Remus furiously, "He can't ever bloody _lie_ to her, and I'm sure she bloody went and —" and Remus has not a clue what goes on in Mother's town house. He's taken great care not to let anyone know, because it's embarrassing and depressing and the last thing he wants to bring to Hogwarts. Even his own blood-brother has been shut out from his head until further notice, so he decides to elaborate with a very informative, " _Gah_. See you in a couple of days."

 _Or not at all, Remus, have a good life,_ he wants to add, but he bites his tongue. That would just be overdramatising.

Father's personal elf appears the next instant to pick him up — of _course_ Black household elves _can_ side-along apparate him from Hogwarts — and Sirius is gone with a _bang_ before he can hear what Remus has to say in return.

By the time his polished shoes hit the equally polished floor outside Father's Library and personal torture chamber, Remus and Hogwarts and the rest of the world are shunted to the farthest corner of Sirius's mind.

* * *

He takes a deep breath, makes sure his Occlumency is on point, that all the dread and anger he's feeling are at least gone from his expression, and reminds himself why he's here at all. Focus, so Uncle Alfie has told him a million times, is everything.

And now that blasted elf, Gnasher, is doing that thing its name suggests, which only irritates Sirius further. He has no choice but to face his irate father, decides at the last minute Launcelot doesn't need to be a part of this, after all.

Sod it, if he bites Father's throat off he'd be doing the bloody world a service.

There is certainly a moment, as he's watching his owl flutter gratefully to his room, where his dread of what will surely come outweighs his anger at the whole situation. But it's only an instant, and like any instant, it is too fleeting to kick his survival instinct into gear.

Even if it did, he'd probably ignore it; he always does.

As every time he's set foot in that accursed Library since he turned eight, he's going in for a fight — and it's always, _always_ a losing battle, one he cannot, for the life of him, ever win.

Not for lack of trying, though.

He heaves a sigh, knocks — and is yanked inside no sooner has the door opened. Father, apparently, is in a hurry to see him. Oh, and he's brought Mother in to watch.

"You wanted to see me," Sirius responds to the looks he's getting, which seem to be asking why he's here at all. To be fair, they are probably wondering why he's still walking the earth rather than why he's in the house.

" _Want_ is such a strong word," Father says, his eyes boring into Sirius' with disgust.

"That's me as well," Sirius replies.

"Shut up." And he's being directed to his usual spot on the ugly green Persian rug with a grunt. As he goes, Sirius wonders what he hates most about this whole farce, decides his walls do need some reinforcing, after all.

Father strides around him imperiously, exposes his every last displeasure with the greatest detail, and Mother helpfully provides some depth and insight when it gets confusing for Sirius's addled little brain. And just in case he's been rendered hard of hearing since the end of the Summer holidays, they are also getting louder with every passing moment.

It all goes down as he'd suspected: They have realised he won't turn on Saturday and they're predictably furious at being made fools of.

As Sirius points out, that's their own damn fault — he distinctly remembers telling them he wouldn't turn, or something to that effect. He can't remember what he said exactly, what with the haze of pain and all. It hardly matters, as Father helpfully provides: he recognised the bite for what it was — _is_ — and he thought it was a cert. Because evidently, being The Black requires knowing what a werewolf bite looks like at a glance, and Sirius doesn't want to know how Father came by his expertise.

Part of him understands his parents' frustration at some twisted level and can't blame them for holding out hope. It _would_ be the _perfect_ ending for him in their eyes, the family fuck-up just fucked up one time too many and predictably, got himself beheaded. "Yes, we are devastated, but what can you do? Ministry regulations regarding werewolves are ever so strict."

He's sure they even had their little speeches prepared and everything, his headstone picked out, the catering for the ensuing dinner party booked, invitations ready to be sent to all the big guns of Wizarding Society. He's sure Mother has spent the past week at wine tastings and picking out the hors d'oeuvres, and since the last moon, Father has been making grandiose plans to groom Regulus, so he'll fit into his shoes when the time comes.

And now Sirius has gone and done it and ruined their plans for the weekend.

He wasn't wrong — their expressions when he confirms he won't turn into a furry rage monster this Saturday are almost as priceless as he'd hoped.

Only… they're also underwhelming. He'd hoped for more shock, on getting a laugh from it, at least.

Worse still, someone went and blabbed to the press — they have no clue who did it, but of course they think it was him — and this morning's paper held a column filled with humiliation and scandal for them both.

Sirius remembers the article, he read it this morning. It was a sob story about the Blacks losing their heir on Saturday, which played right into their plans. It also told the Wizarding World how Orion had decided to have him put down the instant he learnt of his "accident" — which _didn't_.

Then it's all, "how can you be so foolish", and "do you have to advertise your idiocy to the world?" and, "you bring nothing but ridicule to this House," and, "you can't even get a wolf bite right," and "why can't you be more like your brother? He's only eleven and he's already a greater pride to us than you have been in fourteen years," and countless other things Sirius tunes out as best he can. He lets the rant wash over him — every demeaning word, every insult, every fault — with a slight frown on his face. He's still trying to decide what he hates most about this place, this House, his parents, while in the background, the real battle is being waged, mortar and bricks and nothing.

It's like a riptide, an undercurrent that could drown you if you're not careful, one that will slam you around the ocean floor before it spits you out in bits… or pulls you into the depths and kills you. Or feeds you to a shark.

Behind Father's unforgiving stare, Sirius's Occlumency is taking a beating he's barely able to repel. Mind war, that's the only kind of battle he always wins. It's not as if Father cares what he finds, nothing Sirius could ever do would be enough to _not_ warrant punishment, and this is no different.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Father ends his diatribe.

"Me?" Sirius asks back, and it's half a growl. "I _told_ you it was a dog that bit me, but you wouldn't believe me, would you? You were too caught up hoping I'd get put down by the full moon that you didn't even stop to _consider_ I was telling you the bloody truth!"

 _Whoops_. _That came out a bit too honest_ , Sirius thinks as he's sailing backwards into a bookshelf, his face stinging hotly. He all but leaps to his feet, and damn — the Dog wants out. He doesn't let it. Wonders why.

"You're just pissed off because _you_ made a fool of _yourself_!" he snaps instead. It sounds like a bark. "You don't need _me_ to ridicule this House, you do a pretty good job of it alone. This once — not my fault."

"YOU SPOKE TO THE _PAPERS_!" Father roars. "It's not enough to be a relentless source of shame to this House, you also have to publicly humiliate us! Humiliate us and do the _one_ thing you are never to do!"

"I did no such thing!" Sirius shouts back, more affronted than he'd expected. "There's twenty bloody Healers in and out of the castle every blasted day, is it really so _impossible_ to think that one of them might have done it? Are you really _that_ blind or just plain THICK?" And _damn_ — he's gone and done it again and opened his mouth a tad too much for Father's already non-existent tolerance.

"Do not speak to your father like that!" He's quite forgotten about Mother, but the sudden constriction around his neck, those thorns digging into flesh, is quite an effective reminder. "You are the Heir to this House, so stop acting like an ungrateful little brat!"

"Yeah? You can take that bloody job and stick it up your ar— _oof_." snaps Sirius, or tries to; it comes out strangled and the effect he'd intended is lost. The next moment he's picking himself up from the floor again, but — and this makes his frustration only grow into outright rage — that isn't quite working out, either.

His right leg won't respond, and isn't this the _perfect_ time for it to make things awkward, he thinks nonsensically, as pain shoots up all the way to his lungs and makes what little he'd managed to gasp in rush back out. Black blobs swimming around his vision, he pulls himself up by one of the shelves.

"Let me make it really simple for you both —" he spits out furiously. "I _quit_. I _don't want to be_ your bloody _heir._ " Something tells him it's not the first time he's quit, or tried to, but doesn't stop to wonder about it. "Just give the job to Reg and leave me the fuck al—"

.

* * *

.

Sirius finds himself staring at the canopy of his bed, where an oddly familiar coat of arms is coming reluctantly into focus. Some indeterminate amount of time later, it hits him: this _isn't_ where he remembers being last.

Hadn't that little bastard Gnasher been around? Or did he imagine it?

He squints at the magical calendar on his bedside table.

 _Tuesday, November 6._

 _Huh_.

Isn't he supposed to be at school? The thought brings flashes of memory, disconnected images mostly, to his mind. His side is bandaged too, and a peek underneath the dressing jogs his memory far better.

 _So, brain, what the_ _ **hexing hell**_ _am I doing in London_?

His brain shrugs, but it must know _something_ — it's clearing out the rubble, rebuilding walls, mapping out a maze for any intruders to get lost in.

Everything sears and throbs and aches when he sits up dizzily, looks himself over with a frown. Outwardly, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong… until he gets out of bed. His right leg won't carry his weight, he notes with a deep sort of confusion as he's suddenly crashing down.

He looks it over, but other than hurting like Mother, he can't find a reason for it to not work as it should. Then again, he might be imagining things. Maybe he's just having a nightmare again. They often start like this.

There is _definitely_ a strange, dream-like quality to the world just now, and when he finally manages to reach his bathroom and stares into the mirror, he does so for ages before it hits him — the face he's looking at is his own, and he's not dreaming.

"Caught on, have you?" the mirror asks in a bored drawl.

Sirius opens the window for Launcelot to go outside and then goes down to breakfast slowly, taking care to step on his leg just so, because it's reluctant as anything to do its job and take him places. Sirius isn't sure what happened. Maybe he slept wrong, he thinks, holding on to the banister to steady himself.

He reaches the breakfast room, sits down at his usual place, begins to butter a slice of toast.

"What are you doing here?" Father is reading the Prophet, and Sirius stares at it for a while before he realises he ought to formulate a response.

"Eating."

"Who gave him the knitbone?" Father wants to know. Sirius vaguely remembers its a herb.

"Nobody gave me anything. I just woke up."

"Shut up, boy."

He shrugs, lets Father boom and yell at whoever did whatever, watches dazedly as he's told nobody gave him anything, booms and rants some more.

Sirius's attention is on his table setting, where his breakfast is about to arrive. He's starving, and the smell of it is heavenly as it approaches— _oh_.

Sirius looks at the plate Kreacher has just placed in front of him with an exaggerated bow, his mood dropping again. Rather than frustrated, he feels downright crestfallen. Usually he needs more than a sniff to pick apart whether something is edible, but since the Summer, his nose has grown incredibly informative, and he's acquired a large database of what some hexes smell like.

The Full English looks and smells delicious, on the surface it looks perfectly prepared, just the way he can't resist, and he's starving... but he _can't_ eat it, not this.

He decides mournfully that he can hold off another day or two, don't they put some of the milder hexes on it every three or so days so he won't outright starve, or maybe they've caught on that sometimes he's desperate enough to consider it's worth it to put up with a cramping charm, or a temporary deafness hex, or sprout boils, just to get to eat whatever is in front of him? Charming hexes and poisons off a meal is still beyond his abilities, but Sirius resolves he'll bridge that particular gap when he's back at school.

Is it such a wonder he loves playing pranks on people, when his parents do it all the time, when even the bloody _elves_ usually get one up on him here?

He's never been denied food, after all. It's only just mostly cursed, poisoned, hexed, or all three. It's his own fault when he eats it.

"What is it?" Father asks, looking at him from over the rim of his paper.

"Projectile vomiting hex," Sirius answers, reaches for the toast with a sigh. "May I be excused?"

"You shouldn't even be here," is the answer. Father is still annoyed, apparently. Sirius isn't entirely sure why, but then… he's always annoyed. "Get out of my sight. Library, now."

Not annoyed, then. Proper cross and everything.

Sirius nibbles on his toast as he carefully leaves the breakfast parlour, wondering where the previous day went. He's sure _something_ happened. Something important.

It happens often here, he's lost entire weeks' worth of days, as though Grimmauld Place is a black hole, and wouldn't it be fitting if it actually were, he can just bet his parents would be indecently proud to have defined any and all inflections and uses of the word Black, from Blackmail to Black Magic to Black Death and Black holes and everything else dark and nasty and all-consuming in between.

That's also what his memory does, isn't it. Go black.

He doesn't get to the Library right away.

Mother intercepts him on her way to breakfast, wishes him a good morning as lovingly as only she knows. She's fuming, and again Sirius wonders why that is this time, as he's sailing across the second-floor landing. It could be any number of things— _oh_. The werewolf bite, as she's kind enough to remind him.

"Why did you _lie_ to us?!"

"I _told_ you it wasn't a bloody wolf!" Sirius shouts back, his anger back full force. "It's not my bloody fault you didn't believe me and went to town with it, _Mother_. Joke's still on you."

 _They're terrible sports,_ he thinks when the curse hits him. He doesn't think anything except _pain pain hurt_ for a while, and as he's lying there twitching and hating and furious, he wonders how many Cruciatus he'll have to put up with before his entire nervous system is fried and he can't feel pain anymore.

 _One less than last night,_ his brain supplies, and he laughs despite himself.

It's the wrong thing to do.

"Go to the Library," Mother snaps, lifting the curse a second time, and he sits up, all jerky movements and trembling limbs, tries to get his head to stop spinning. If Mother hadn't turned her back on him just then, she'd have seen the snarl on his face, the fangs he's bared out of reflex. It takes a while, but in the end he drags himself to the place he arguably has spent more time in than anywhere else in the house.

But life here is like that, and he tries to think back on a time when it wasn't, finds more black holes than any galaxy could contain.

He can't go into the Library without at least a few deep breaths, much less with a spinning head, he knows that much as intimately as he knows how to breathe. Probably even better, but deep breaths do nothing to steady him this time, and that too, is frustrating.

When he gives up on breathing, he walks in as straight as he can even if his leg is rather more unstable than before — there's a strange grating sensation every time he gingerly puts weight on it, an odd wobble, as if it will snap in two if he isn't careful — and faces Father, who is at his desk, fingers steepled under his nose.

Orion's Legilimency isn't subtle like Dumbledore's - it's a bloody cannon that hits you in the head, doesn't pick thoughts apart carefully to find what he seeks, no — he uses a bloody shovel, doesn't care what he rifles through as long as he finds exactly… _nothing_ , because _that's_ what Sirius has given him for almost six years now, every time. And as long as he can keep his walls up, that's pretty much what Father will be getting.

His newest one shatters and crumbles into rubble, and he wonders if Mother was waiting to ambush him earlier just to help Father along, and Sirius isn't sure just now _why_ he does it, but it's immensely important not to give an inch, so he just... _doesn't_.

Father isn't happy about it at all. Then again, the bastard isn't ever happy about anything.

" _What_ bit you?" he shouts, makes Sirius jump. He's also terribly helpful like that, and suddenly Sirius knows _exactly_ what he's getting at. It's like yesterday suddenly reconstructs itself, not entirely — but his mind provides the highlights, even as it's adding mortar and bricks to his other walls in a hurry.

"A _dog_ ," he tells him, annoyance coating his words.

"No dog leaves marks like that!"

"It was a _large_ dog, ever think of that?" Sirius offers irreverently.

"So, you won't turn."

"No, sorry." It's not an apology.

"Why didn't you tell me? You brought shame on us. _Ridicule_. Now the papers caught wind of it—"

"You think I went to the papers." Sirius scoffs, rolls his eyes. Father hates that.

" _Someone_ did, and we could have prevented it if you had just told us! Instead we find out through your brother!"

So it _was_ Reg. That blabbermouth. He can't lie to them to save his life — or Sirius's, just now — and Sirius honestly still can't bring himself to be mad at him.

When he's sent to fetch the Cutting Cane a moment later, though, Sirius is tempted to revise that last.

He grits his teeth to keep from wincing — he's not imagining things, his leg _is_ grating against itself — but he does fetch the bloody thing from the rack by the fireplace and for a moment he is grateful it's not the one next to it.

He hates the Holloway Rod with a passion, but there's something that's unusual about it. It isn't giving out its usual greedy, hungry hum. It's just… angry. The thing is _full up_ , Sirius realises, and that tells him he's not getting the Rod only because it's already happened.

He places the cane on top of his father's desk before he knows what he's doing, stares at its surface. Shouldn't it be white, though? Red means…

"I missed something."

"It'll come to you," says his father confidently.

Sirius frowns at it, tries to do an inward tally of his system, but he's still reeling from the Cruciatus — _everything_ hurts, everything _will_ cramp up. It's ridiculous, and he chuckles softly at the irony of it: he's too fried to even manage to dissect what hurts where and why.

"What's funny?" asks Father, stepping around his desk.

"This whole… _thing_ ," Sirius answers. "You and your ridiculous obsession with keeping up appearances. _The Black,_ all hear his name and tremble, right? You're just an old wizard terrified of what people will say about you, you're scared of them _laughing_ at you."

"Go on." It's casual enough, even curious. It's also a threat Sirius decides to ignore.

"That's the gist of it, isn't it? All this blood purity bullshit, you don't even believe it. It just gives you a lie to hide behind, something to hold over other people's heads, and you've lied so much to yourself you actually believe you _are_ better than everyone else, until something happens and sets your perceptions straight. But all you are," he runs one finger along the Cutting Cane, hisses at the slice, brings his bleeding finger to his mouth. "All you are is a butcher who can't even get a point across using his own words. Mugwump, indeed. Who was the unzipped moron who let you loose in the International Wizarding Council, I wonder. Someone wanting to collect a bribe? Or did you threaten them like you did the Wizengamot?"

"Take off your shirt," his father says coldly.

Sirius does, and for an instant, as his blood is running cold with dread, he thinks, he _did_ go a bit too far after all.

In for a Knut, in for a Galleon, though.

"And what is that going to accomplish?" he asks. "Do you think it'll finally do what you've been trying for years and turn me into a proper Black? Admit it, all you want is a punching bag because you're to chicken shite to go against anyone your size."

"Bend over the table and grip the end."

"Enjoy it while it lasts, Father. Maybe you'll even come up with a good enough reason for it sometime."

"You are a shame to this House!" His father erupts. "What more reason could I have?"

"And beating me bloody will somehow make me less of an embarrassment?" Sirius laughs, shakes his head. "It hasn't worked for years—"

"Your station— your heritage — those things you spit on with your every breath, with your bloody idiotic stunts. YOU GO AGAINST OUR EVERY TRADITION! I WILL TEACH YOU RESPECT IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO!"

Sirius can't get in a word edgewise — mostly because there is a _crack_ with every other word, a _crack_ that burns hot and blossoms into a red-hot sort of pain that goes beyond just skin, knocks all the air out of his lungs so hard he couldn't have cried out even if he'd wanted to give Father the satisfaction.

"YOU ARE A _BLACK_!" Orion bellows, and four more lashes streak across his back, burning sharply. "YOU ARE MY HEIR AND YOU ARE A SHAME TO ME AND TO THIS HOUSE!"

Sirius grits his teeth, mind reeling along with the rest of him, the Dog wanting out, to rip that bloody Cane, the hand holding it, to shreds.

And why does he even hold back?

He doesn't know.

 _I'm so sick of this,_ he thinks.

"Do you think I enjoy it, boy?"

Maybe he said it aloud.

 _Yeah_. Yeah, he did.

"You're too enthusiastic not to." It's a wheeze, and Sirius isn't sure why, but suddenly he's turning around to face his father. To bite him, or lunge, or _something_ — he's not sure what.

Orion is clearly surprised by it. He takes a step back.

"Enjoy it while you still can," Sirius snaps, pushes himself off the edge of that bloody desk with a growl. "Because someday, someday _soon_ , you'll be _gone_ , and when you're getting buried, all your precious traditions, your mindless purebred drivel, your fucking House, _all of it_ will get buried with you. I'LL BURN IT TO THE GROUND, CANES AND RODS AND WANDS AND ALL, ALL TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF HISTORY OF IT, AND NOBODY WILL EVEN _REMEMBER YOUR FUCKING NAME_ WHEN I'M DONE! So, go for it, Father!" he prompts, spreads his arms wide. "I'm pretty sure you missed a spot—"

He's suddenly on the floor, and what's raining down on him isn't the Cane anymore. The _crack_ is replaced by a sound like a Muggle gunshot, followed by a warm sensation that grows into agony, and he's suddenly covering his sharply searing head and curling up to make himself as small a target as possible. This is new, and when he chances a look at Father, he can see he is apoplectic.

 _This is it, then_ , Sirius thinks. _He's going to kill me this time_.

It's a welcome change, at this point.

He's pondering what his last words should be — properly defiant, maybe even haunting — when the world shuts off.

.

* * *

.

Sirius tastes blood when the world comes into a very blurry existence again.

He doesn't pass out often, but it's a time for firsts, isn't it.

Father is smoking a cigar, not in his leather armchair but next to him on the rug Sirius knows so intimately. He can recall at least a dozen times, all of a sudden, when he's had the same plush fibres blocking his nostrils, getting into his mouth when he can hardly breathe, his field of vision taken up by Father's shoes. By other shoes that aren't Father's… And then he's sure he's hallucinating, because he remembers red eyes, and the smell of brandy, and laughter and fear and _nothing_.

His brain seems to have decided this isn't the proper course for his thoughts, and he's suddenly focused on spitting out fibres from the rug. They're the damnedest things in this blasted house. Not even the decor can be accommodating.

"I don't want to hear you say anything like that ever again," Father states, every word carefully measured, perfectly articulated, so he won't miss a single one. Or the threat behind them. "That was tantamount to treason."

"Go deaf then," Sirius grits out, spits out another few threads. The world is tilting and swimming and alternately hot and cold. His head feels rather too large, like a balloon about to burst, and if he only could open his eyes properly, he'd maybe even manage to make sense of what's going on.

"You can kiss my arse. You can also go fuck yourself, along with all the bloody Blacks. If it's ever up to me, things here will be _nothing_ like this, I'll become something as far away from _this,_ from _you_ , as I can make it." His tongue keeps getting stuck trying to form the words, but a squint tells him there's a vein going in Father's temple, tells him his point is getting across.

"Enjoy your House of Black while it lasts, Father. It will die with you. Your traditions will die with you, and I'll take a match to everything you stand for, burn it all down. Maybe I'll just spark up an Eternal Flame, right here on this bloody rug, bring some proper light in."

"Is that a threat, boy?"

"It's something," Sirius slurs. The world is seesawing, and he's too tired to fight it. "A promise." He'll get to it… after a nap. Yes. he closes his eyes, gives up on trying to get up at all.

"I'll just obliviate you again."

"You did that yesterday, how is that working for you?" he slurs out placidly.

" _Obliv_ —"

.

* * *

.

Sirius wakes up in his bed, face down and hurting all over. Worst of all is his head, though. For an instant, he thinks, _that last Beater practice went south so badly,_ and _, how many Bludgers were there this time?_

The calendar, though, is the one he's got in his room in London.

What's even more confusing is, it reads, _November 7_.

All Sirius can think of, though, is, _Gubraithian Fire_. Mortar and bricks and a maze _around nothing, nothing, nothing_.

Maybe it's high time he learnt to spell up an Eternal Flame. Might come in handy sometime.

He doesn't bother going to the breakfast room today. It's too far of a walk, though calling what he's doing "walking" would be a gross exaggeration. He hobbles straight to the Library instead, not quite aware of what he's doing until he's standing in front of the rack. The Rod radiates contentment, the Cane is dripping. Sirius puzzles over it for a second, then dismisses it. Picks out the Seizing Strap, just to give it variety, tosses it on the mahogany desk. One of its metal edges scratches the surface.

 _Whoops_.

Father finds him reading. Reading and mortar and bricks and walls and a maze around _nothing, nothing, nothing_. Sirius ignores him, though the Dog's hackles are rising.

"What's that?" Father wants to know.

Sirius smirks, "Gubraithian Fire. It doesn't look like it's all that hard to make."

He doesn't get any farther than that.

.

* * *

.

 _November 8,_ when he manages to focus enough to make out the date.

Sirius knows he ought to be at school. He looks at the fat moon setting over London from his bedroom window, doesn't even wonder why he wants to hit (or even better, bite) things anymore. He's sure there's a reason, and he trusts the Dog better than he does himself.

Launcelot flutters onto his shoulder, his feathers on end.

He's missed something.

"Go," says Sirius, when he's managed to make it to the window at an oddly unstable shuffle. "And if I don't come back, don't you even think of coming back, either. Go to James and stay with him." It sounds a bit too dramatic in his ears, but he knows it's warranted.

To judge by how Launcelot takes to the skies an instant later, he knows the owl feels it too.

His leg, he notices, throbs dully and won't carry his weight. He absently wonders what that is. The rest of him seems to know, it's just his brain that seems to have forgotten. The Dog knows it too, snarling and growling furiously inside him. Sirius can't find fault in that, but this is Grimmauld Place, and that means the Dog goes in his box until he can figure out what he's missed this time around.

"Bloody black hole," he mutters. It seems only fitting, he's not sure why.

Breakfast is devoid of hexes and the more obvious poisons.

"Last meal?" He asks Father lightly. His brain won't tell him why it chose to give him those words to say, and Sirius is long past caring. He wolfs it down, and if it's poisoned, well. Tough.

"Library," says Father through clenched teeth.

Sirius gets out the mortar and bricks again, wipes his mouth, and walks slowly upstairs.

Mother only glares at him as he passes her on her way down to breakfast. Or maybe she's smiling, it's hard to tell with her, her every expression is a grimace. She'll get stuck that way, Sirius thinks, maybe she already _did_ , and he finds it so funny his laughter echoes in the staircase.

Father doesn't arrive immediately, so Sirius browses the shelves, as if they hold the answer to why he's positively itching to tear them all into confetti, finds a book that looks interesting.

He's read this before, hasn't he? _Sure-Fire Ways to Spell Gubraithian Fire_. Sirius leafs through it, decides he knows this already. When he puts it back, he feels his father suddenly behind him.

"Looking for something to read?"

"Read it already."

"Thinking of burning something down, are you?"

Sirius shrugs one shoulder, winces. For some reason, the pain only makes him angrier. When he swallows it back, it doesn't make it past his Adam's apple.

"I summoned you here because I want to make _one_ thing very clear," says Father, and the way he says it makes Sirius's breakfast churn in the pit of his stomach.

"You've made it plenty clear these past few days, haven't you," his brain decides to supply. It comes out at a growl, and Sirius realises, it's the Dog speaking.

Father's eyes widen in shock, or something like it, but he regains his composure incredibly fast. Sirius isn't sure why, dismisses it right after.

"What is your role in life?" Orion grits out. Of all the times to give him a bloody quiz.

"Perpetual source of embarrassment?" Sirius suggests. "Punching bag? Whipping boy? Take your pick, I don't care."

"That's what you've brought onto yourself. What is your _role_ in life? In this _House_?"

"Resident pyromaniac," Sirius decides. "Your House could do with a make-over."

"As could you." He ought to be wary of the wand in Father's hand, but Sirius only feels his hackles rising.

"You've already done that, Father."

"It seems it hasn't sunk in. Take off your shirt."

"No." Sirius stares straight at Orion, his tone mirroring his. "I'm going back to Hogwarts, now. I've been here too long already, and frankly, I have a million better things to do."

"Who said you're _ever_ going back to that school?" Father asks. "We've been over this every day, when will it sink in? And you _will_ do as you're told."

Now _that_ makes Sirius's eyes widen in realisation. Father smiles coldly as it sinks in, as Sirius' blood runs cold.

How long has he been here?!

"You have caused this Noble House a _terrible_ humiliation. You broke our agreement, and as such it is now void. You're never setting foot in that accursed castle ag—"

"You're delusional, Father," Sirius shoots back. Thankfully, his brain, or the Dog, no — that little Slytherin he _does,_ indeed, have inside him rears up his head — It's as though his system has finally decided to cooperate. Or maybe he's tried all other options – kicking and screaming included – before, and he's finally decided to think outside the box.

Negotiation, or something like it, is his last resort.

He's not a fan, but the first rule of Slytherin is: everything is negotiable.

"Won't people start asking questions?" Sirius asks, takes a step forward. Father backs off, and it's the most incredible feeling. "Won't they wonder if you're not hiding a _monster_ in here? I doubt the Ministry will fear you enough to not search this place—" Sirius stops short as something else clicks. "You know, on second thoughts, I'll stay. I'd _love_ for them to find your toys, and you know how _scary_ the Ministry officials are. I'd feel so helpless I'd end up telling them everything about all your—"

"Are you _threatening_ me, you little shite?"

Sirius smirks, earnestly amused at his father's outraged expression. He looks quite apoplectic, like he's about to pop a vein. Sirius fervently hopes he does.

"I _am,_ " he confirms, but his voice cracks on the second word. It only makes him feel like laughing. "Fancy _that_ , Father — you finally knocked a Slytherin into me!"

"I _said_ — Take off— your—" Orion is gasping for breath, that vein popping on his temple isn't alone anymore. It looks as though the spider's web Father is made of has finally decided to show itself. For an instant, Sirius wonders what biting into _that_ would taste like.

 _Sewage, probably_. He smells of it, too. The entire house does.

"I heard you," he answers, and it comes out as a snarl. "But I won't do it. I'm _done_. I'm done with you."

"You shall do as you're told."

"No, Father. I shan't. I'm sick of your stupid rules."

"You love to— to break them constantly—"

"And isn't it a royal waste of both our time." The air is crackling with magic now, and Sirius is surprised to note it's not coming from Father; it's all him this time.

"I will not _allow_ —"

"You're just pissed because I won't turn tomorrow and you won't get to see me beheaded. Fair enough. Here, try the Rod today, why don't you. I'm sure it's quite hungry again," he suggests, even as Orion's precious artefacts begin to fly across the room, knocking into walls and shattering the large stained-glass windows. He hasn't had an outburst of accidental magic in years, not since he was eight and beside himself with grief. But like the Dog, he feels like a pressure pot about to blow. He needs an outlet, or he'll explode.

"Or the Cane! It's starting to lose colour." Sirius suggests, and it flies into his hand, where it shatters into a million blood-stained splinters. "Or your little curses? It won't change a thing, _Father_. I'm _done_ playing by your rules. Even if it's brick by brick, I'll tear down this place. The sooner you die, the sooner it will happen. So, you better live a long life!" He's shouting now, his head feels like it's about to blow up, and he part wishes it would.

"What is wrong with you?! Why do you spit on your ancestors? On our heirlooms, our ways? Why do you —"

"Hate you? WHERE _DO YOU WANT ME TO BEGIN_?"

 _"_ _Crucio!_ "

"That's one of the reasons," Sirius wheezes when the world turns on again. Picks himself up from the floor, which is littered with the aftermath of his little hurricane. It's strangely liberating.

"Your House of Black _will_ change, Father," Sirius spits out venomously. "If it's up to me, I'll change it so much you'd never recognise it, you'll be dead and forgotten, and in the meantime you can just— go fuck yourself. You can _all_ go fuck yourselves, or each other, for all I care. Enjoy your old traditions while they last, because I _will_ end them all."

"Is that a threat, Sirius?"

"It's a _promise_. And I'll make it happen, no matter what you do. Your succession will end, and I hope you'll become a bloody ghost I can lock in the attic with the others, so you can watch!"

Father raises his wand. Sirius doesn't flinch back.

.

* * *

.

Sirius opens his eyes.

 _November 9._

It's sunny out, sunny and cold, as if London can't make up its mind what to dish out today.

 _I ought to go to school,_ he thinks.

He's been lying here for too long. When he sits up, everything a dull throb, he wonders what happened now, why he hesitates before putting weight on his right leg when there's nothing wrong with it, why his tongue feels so papery and thick in his mouth.

He stands unsteadily, and after a few moments the world stops tilting. Just a lingering sensation remains, which grows whenever he stands still — like he's slowly falling backwards, all the time. As if the world is a bit of a kaleidoscope, today. He shakes his head to clear it, finds it's not the best of ideas.

His wand is on his desk, a set of Gryffindor robes — surprisingly devoid of stinging spells, or itching charms, or an acid coating — has been laid out for him. It's new, perfectly tailored and ready for him to wear.

Sirius looks at it grimly, not quite certain where the sensation of accomplishment he's feeling came from. A moment later it's dismissed, and out of habit, he works on adding some struts to the maze that leads to _nothing, nothing, nothing_.

He moves to the bathroom, looks himself in the mirror. It, too, looks like it's moving, forwards rather than backwards. It's dizzying, its words distorted in the rush of the sea, which is all he can hear.

He takes a shower — cold, he feels like he's burning up, and his back stings something wonderful and that _still_ doesn't manage to surprise him.

Launcelot flutters onto his shoulder as he's towelling his hair dry, coos affectionately at him. Every movement aches and hurts, but he can try and turn in front of the mirror all he wants— he sees nothing there, except a rather well-placed concealment charm. He leaves it there. There's probably a reason for that, too— Black Rule number one, don't let anyone see.

It's probably got something to do with that urge he's got, to hit something hard. If it hits back, even better— he's sure there's a troll in the Forest, maybe he ought to pay it a visit.

But that's for later. Right now, it's all bricks and mortar and shovelling the debris out of the way, to rebuild walls protecting _nothing, nothing, nothing_.

There is no breakfast on the table.

No Father.

No Mother.

Sirius shrugs, makes his drunken way to the front room, grabs a fistful of Floo Powder in passing and upends the jar.

"Clean up on aisle six," he calls, but the house seems strangely… empty. Not even the bloody elves are around, Father's personal goblin either. If he's dreaming, Sirius thinks, it's a good one.

He lights the fireplace, and it's only when he's staring at the white-blue flames that look nothing like what he expected, he realises he's just created an Eternal Flame.

He bursts out laughing, throws Floo Powder into it, watches it turn green with something like fascination.

 _They'll have a job undoing that,_ he thinks, and steps into the flames to go home, Launcelot cooing in his ear, the Dog itching to come out and sink his fangs into something, preferably Orion-shaped. Sirius hopes the fire will spread, eat up the whole accursed house, rods and canes and curses and all.

 _Wouldn't that be a laugh_.

.

* * *

.

His return to Hogwarts doesn't go as smoothly as he'd expected? Intended? _Hoped_? Sirius isn't sure.

Everyone is furious, or miffed, or plain cross at him, and Sirius can't for the life of him remember what he did this time, and it makes his frustration rise.

Even James, usually a welcome face, is right proper mad at him.

"Why the hell didn't you answer me?" he snaps, and Sirius realises he must've forgotten to connect with James. "Why didn't you even reply to my owls?"

"Didn't know you sent any. You shouldn't—" Sirius suddenly feels the world tilt, his brain supplies a glimpse, a moment only, from the depths of the green rug.

 _"Master, another scroll."_

 _"The Potter boy, again. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's in love with you, Sirius." Father chuckles, tosses the scroll in the fire. Sirius grits his teeth, but he doesn't protest. He can't even move, can't get up. He can't coordinate his madly-jerking limbs, can't_ —

"… shouldn't have sent any," Sirius hears his mouth finish for him. The world doesn't stop tilting, though, and the Nurse ends up ushering James away, when his yelling gets on her nerves.

She isn't happy with him either, though. She wasn't when he stumbled drunkenly out of her fireplace, claiming he's just woken up, and it doesn't seem to have improved even hours later.

"He's angry," Sirius points out at James's retreating back. It's just about all he's been able to gather from James's furious rant.

"Can you blame him?" Pomfrey chides. "We expected you back by Wednesday at the latest, and there was not a word from you or your parents. Everyone was getting nervous."

"I overslept." It's not even a lie.

"For a _week_? Are you serious?"

"I think… I think I am. I am Sirius, aren't I." He chuckles at the old pun, watches the nurse slowly revolve around his field of vision. "Get it? Sirius?"

A long soak in the Hospital Wing tub later, he feels a bit better. The world has stopped repeating the same image at a slow whirl, but he still feels like he's constantly falling backwards, and everything aches and stings.

The Healers are not really helpful in that regard, either. If anything, they're convinced he is, in fact, going to turn tomorrow, and by the time they leave before dinner, Sirius's mood has dropped dramatically, the urge to go bite something is even worse.

.

* * *

.

His glowering mood dies with the arrival of the best news _ever_.

It's surprising only because it is delivered by Regulus, whom Sirius vaguely remembers being annoyed with, but can't remember why. One look at his pale, ashen expression later, though, Sirius has forgotten all about his phantom annoyance and sits up in bed, alarmed.

"What's wrong, Reggie?" he asks, searching his brother's devastated expression for any kind of clue. "What happened?"

"Don't tell me you don't know, you were there." Regulus looks close to tears, and a stone settles in Sirius' stomach.

"Know what?" he asks, honestly confused. "All I did over there was sleep until this morning."

"It's _Father_ , Sirius!" Reggie tells him, his voice shrill with emotion. "He had a stroke last night." he holds out a scroll in his clenched fist. " _What did you do_?"

.

* * *

.

TBC, soon.

Feedback, as always, is very welcome and muchly appreciated!

 **Next up:** Sirius barely passes his werewolf examinations, Orion Black dies, and everything turns sour in ways Sirius couldn't possibly have anticipated. Walburga is a terrible mother, and Voldemort gets a cameo.


	2. Preamble: Ad Lupum

**Disclaimer:** Kids, jumping off heights and picking fights with mountain trolls isn't a good way of dealing with things. Use your words instead. Seriously. Parents, don't do the shit Walburga and Orion do. They're monsters, not role models, and deserve to die in the most nasty ways I can think up.

* * *

 **In this chapter:** Werewolf examinations aren't what Sirius expected but I watched Underworld so he's screwed, James complains about the requests for meat but is a good mate anyway, BLACK WARNINGS again, this time, meet capslock!Walburga — writing that made my eyes hurt so I'll avoid it in the future, Sirius has a TBI, picks fights, creates a gargoyle of indecency, gets another TBI, no they don't cancel each other out. Annnd… I decided to stop on a high note for once.

* * *

 **Preamble: Ad Lupum**

* * *

.

"What did you do?"

" _Me_?" Sirius stares at Regulus, dumbfounded. "Believe me, little brother, I _wish_ I'd done something to cooperate, but all I did in London was sleep."

"Mother said it was you. Father will be okay, though," Regulus adds, after a glance at the scroll in his hand.

"Oh, Reg, don't ruin the moment," Sirius groans. "You should've left it at, "Father had a stroke" and just made my day. I'm convalescing here."

Regulus frowns at him, exasperated. It's still the best news he's gotten in ages.

"You're not even ill," he argues, then thinks about it and adds, "But Mother says—"

" _Mother_ says whatever she wants you to think. Oh, I hope he's worse off than she claims."

"That's treason," Regulus points out, scrunches up his nose childishly.

" _Oh, yes_ , it is." Sirius doesn't know why laughter bubbles up from deep inside him, but he's in stitches a moment later, wheezing for breath in between guffaws. He doesn't even notice when Regulus makes himself scarce, or the look of betrayal on his face.

"What's funny?" it's James' voice what snaps Sirius out of it instead. He is apparently over his sulk, or back to yell at him some more. Let him, Sirius thinks, there's no way _anything_ he says can ruin today.

"Just something I missed," Sirius says, a wide smile on his face as the world spins lazily around him, James' smell of freshly-cut hay fills his nose. "Slept right through it, apparently. Damn."

"So, you _really, actually,_ slept all week, Sirius?" James asks, flopping down on his bed. Sirius hadn't expected that, shifts his leg out of the way with a sort of alarm that is completely unwarranted. James doesn't fail to notice it, and because he does, so does Sirius, now.

He frowns, confused. Meets James' concerned gaze.

"I… I don't know," he admits slowly, thinking back on London. "Last thing I remember, is leaving _here_. But… they were _pissed_ ," he explains, even as his brain supplies some sketchy, disconnected images. It makes him dizzy all over, his urge to laugh suddenly gone. "Royally pissed."

"Why?"

"Take your _pick_." Sirius snorts, shakes his head. He's long stopped wondering why his parents do whatever they do. It's not a very fruitful activity. In fact, he avoids thinking of them whenever possible. "They're always cross, who cares."

"Give it a go," James prompts grimly. Why, oh _why_ is James in such a bloody rotten mood? Sirius was _celebrating_.

"The paper… I think. Or… the bite? There was _something_ , definitely." Sirius' head begins to throb, and the urge to hit something reasserts itself almost at once. He'd like nothing better than hit something and bite and he's falling again, backwards. Why is it always backwards? It's starting to make him nauseous.

"Eh. I don't know," he says after a moment, wishing James would drop the subject. "But it's over at least," he adds, tries to look at the bright side. "Whatever it was, it probably wasn't so bad or they wouldn't have let me come back."

Just a regular wizard's visit to his parents, that's all it was. Nothing more. Right?

"You don't look like you slept all week," James points out and shatters Sirius' attempt at convincing himself that's all it was before it's even fully baked. "Rather like you did anything but."

"I can't remember, James," Sirius sighs. Why is he thinking of fire, then? Black holes and walls and fire that never goes out.

"Anything?" James asks, and now he's all frowns and smelling of something like irritation. "It's all blank?"

 _"_ _YOU ARE A BLACK! YOU ARE MY HEIR AND YOU ARE A SHAME TO ME AND TO THIS HOUSE!"_

Sirius feels a twinge, a flash of anger, deep resentment.

"I don't know."

"What are those Healers giving you?" James wants to know next.

"The pink one and the blue, a white one and …" Sirius says vaguely, but he is considering James' words now, too. "But they didn't find anything wrong earlier. Believe me, they _looked_. They said everything was normal."

James bites his lip, ruffles his hair, heaves a frustrated sigh.

"What's got your pants all twisted up?"

"I got _nothing_ from you since Monday, Sirius. It's _Friday_ ," he snaps. "You can't even go a full night most days, and now you really want me to believe you slept for a _week_? At your _parents'_?"

"Put that way." And now he's beginning to wish James would stop the interrogation. It's making his head pound.

"The Healers are expecting you to turn. We both know how Remus gets before the Moon —"

"Old Granny McGrumpster," Sirius says, and snickers. He's falling again, backwards, into an endless abyss.

"Like everything hurts," James corrects. He isn't laughing. "They're _expecting_ you to turn, Sirius. Of course they didn't find anything out of the ordinary — for a werewolf, this close to moonrise."

"Yeah, but I looked too. I found nothing." Sirius' mind is wandering again, fire and black holes and books flying around Father's Library, and rage, a wish to bite… Sirius shakes it off. "Father had a stroke, though. Maybe they just knocked me out while they went to St. Mungo's?"

"Your father had a _stroke_?"

"Regulus told me just now." Sirius finds it's a far better topic to think about. It makes him feel strangely vindicated. Accomplished. He closes his eyes, gives in to the falling sensation as the world spins and tilts with him in tow.

When he opens his eyes, James is gone and it feels like it's dinnertime. Or like it should be. The sun is setting outside, bathing everything in a reddish hue. Even Launcelot on his headboard looks like he's on fire.

James comes through, his voice hazy and far away at first. As it grows louder, Sirius realises this is what woke him up.

 _Sirius? Sirius? Sirius! SIRIUS! SI!RI!US!_

 _What_.

 _Merlin's balls, were you asleep_ again?

 _Just woke up_ , Sirius confirms brightly, spinning slowly along with the world. _Gods, I'm starving. You wouldn't happen to have_ —

 _Yeah, I got you your ruddy chops or whatever. You're disgusting_.

 _Bring them over. Hungry. Ravenous_.

 _Poops won't let me. It's the night before the moon, you're supposed to be extra dangerous. As if you weren't that every day._

 _She doesn't lock Remus up the day before the moon. He…_

 _She's just pretending to follow procedure. We need a distraction._

 _…_ _locks himself in_ …

Sirius is falling again. It feels nice at first, but he's quickly getting tired of the sensation.

 _SIRIUS!_

 _What?_

 _Are you even listening?_

 _…_ _Yeah._

 _What did I say?_

 _Poops._

 _I said, I'll send you the food with an elf. Then I'll hex Snivellus…_

 _Why?_

 _Because he upended my cauldron in Potions class, I told you!_

 _When?_

 _Just now!_

 _You had Potions class now? It's like, evening._

 _I told you just now, that he upended my cauldron in Potions class this morning,_ James sounds annoyed, but Sirius can feel he's worried. He's not sure why.

 _Oh. Right._

 _So, I'll hex him after Remus goes over to see you. She'll let him in. I'm going to glue his_ …

He's dreaming. Maybe that's what it is. Or maybe his head is just—

 _Sirius!_ Startles him some unknown amount of time later.

 _…_ _What?_

 _Did you listen to_ anything _I just said?_

 _Yeah. Food and Remus and not to confuse one for the other. But you should tell_ him _that. He_ bites _. Terrible table manners… doesn't ever share_.

James lets out an exasperated groan. Then he's gone, just as the world gives a rather enthusiastic flip, the rest of him a less enthusiastic throb.

When Sirius opens his eyes again, it's quite dark out. He gets out of bed and sits for a moment, angry and not sure why.

 _Maybe a bath is in order_. Launcelot, who is gripping his shoulder with his sharp talons, coos his agreement.

Baths always help him stay civil, collect his thoughts, and this one is no different: for an hour or two, it's all hot water, mortar and bricks around a mess of rubble and caved-in walls filled with anger and the thirst for revenge.

When he emerges from his bath feeling a little better, Remus is there. Sirius gives him a glance, can't help his hackles rising at the smell this time. It's not easy, today of all days — he smells of _wolf_ and _fight_ and _ripbitekill_ and Sirius' side gives a twinge at the sight of him.

The Dog still has a score to settle.

But then an elf arrives, places a large parcel from James on his bedside table. It smells heavenly, and the Dog perks up within him, decides any settling of scores can wait until after dinner. Suddenly it's easier to stay up, the dizziness reduced to a slight, slow spin, his anger almost gone.

Remus argues that he shouldn't do this, not tonight, but James is about to hex Snivellus, and the opportunity is too good to let pass.

 _I see him. I'm going to reverse his knees, so just wait until Poops is gone. Just… don't blow this, Sirius_. James seems to think he can't keep something as simple as raw meat from Poops, apparently.

 _Glad to know how much you trust me,_ he thinks back at him. Then he focuses on unwrapping his treat, and what do you know— it's _exactly_ what he needed. Comfort food, as it were.

The urge to sink his teeth into something flares up yet again as he sits down with Remus, but Sirius chalks it up to a month of eating nothing but hospital food, confirms it after he's wrestled his half of tonight's dinner from Remus' greedy claws.

That night, stuffed to bursting point with mutton, Sirius sleeps like the dead.

.

* * *

.

The Healers wake him up early the following morning.

Sirius thinks that's why his head keeps spinning, people keep waking him up, how do they expect him to be able to follow what the hell they're on about?

Further, how do they expect him to understand them at all, if they're wearing what looks like silver armour? The metal squeaks and hurts his ears, as they strip him and prod at the bits of silver that make every movement hellish, look disappointed when there's no infection, no blood poisoning. They give him the potions they're testing on him that are supposed to make him sleepy or slow or something, cast diagnostic charm after diagnostic charm, try to see if a shocking spell will make his eyes turn yellow, like Remus' do when he gets angry before the moon.

The usual, as it were.

What isn't, is that today, Sirius isn't in the mood. Where before he knew he was protecting Remus' identity — and those of the unknown werewolves in the secret colony over in the Forest — today he fails to see the point in it at all.

Pomfrey brings him lunch and the Healers retreat to look over their results and prepare the cage where he'll transform (according to them, there's still a good chance of it happening), and if this isn't a last meal, Sirius doesn't know what it could be.

When he realises he's picking at his steak and mashed potatoes without an ounce of appetite, he finally comes to the conclusion that he's dreading the afternoon.

Winter moons are long, and this one is no exception: Moonrise, so the part of his brain that's still capable of calculating stuff tells him, will occur nine minutes before five.

At two, the Disposal of Magical Creatures lot arrive. There's five of them, all of them large and imposing-looking. He knows a couple of them, from dinner parties and things. There's MacNair's dad, Wilf, with the silver axe. He catches Sirius' eye, gives him a leer, swings the axe experimentally.

"Just a precaution, Mr. Black," makes Sirius detach his eyes from MacNair and fix them on Tristram Borgin the youngest (there's like, five of those), who unceremoniously grabs his wrists and shackles him to the bed with silver-lined chains. Sirius can't resist the urge to give him a good threatening growl, smirks when Borgin leaps away as if stung.

Good to know they're afraid of him, at least.

He only hopes those ugly-looking spiked manacles aren't for him.

 _Sirius!_

 _What._

 _I saw the Disposal Squad arrive—_

 _They're here._

 _Want me to come over?_

 _No. Just… don't let Remus see them. They're… He wouldn't take it in stride._

 _Are you sure?_

 _I'm sure. Just keep him away from here. Don't even tell him_.

The Contagion Room is a tiny thing, really, with just enough space for a bed and a dresser. Sirius didn't know one of its walls opens into a dungeon-type chamber, but it does. They don't even close the wall again as they start building a cage, barely big enough for him, that's made out of silver. Sirius wonders about the hole on one of the sides, until they put a chin guard in and he realises that's where his head is supposed to go.

So they can chop it off right away if he turns.

Suddenly he starts to worry.

What if he begins to go _dog_? He's not sure they'd let Launcelot stay on his shoulder, and if the chains with the spikes are any indication, they'll do everything in their power to _make_ him turn.

He'd suspected for months Remus wouldn't take well to anyone else showing up during a moon, and part of him had dismissed the consequences of a bite, just focusing on the fact he couldn't get infected if he was in animal form.

Clearly, he ought to have looked at how the Disposal Squad works _before_ he decided Poops should look at his bite.

He watches Burke and MacNair as they prepare the restraints, and he has to admit he hadn't expected _this_. He wonders why the overkill.

If he were indeed about to pull a Remus… the transformation alone is horrifying and nothing short of torture. He's seen two of those, and it's a mess of blood and bones and things popping out of place that takes so long, he wonders how Remus manages to put up with it at all month after month.

Turning into a dog in itself isn't painful, but pain invariably brings the Dog out…

And this looks like it's going to _hurt_.

There's a moment— when they test the contraption for the first time — when he considers coming clean, telling them he's an Animagus— but then it would be _Remus_ in that cage, wouldn't it, and they'd get to use all those sharp pointy things they brought on him. And they would kill him.

Sirius knows he wouldn't ever forgive himself if that happened. After all he, James and Peter have done for years to help Remus, it's not even an option.

 _No._ Frightening as the prospect is, it will only last a few minutes, an hour at most — and he's not a wolf, so. He'll be okay. All he needs to do is not turn into a dog for an hour. He can do that, right?

 _Right?_

Right. All he needs, is to keep focused, and not grow fur or a single whisker.

 _Well. Here goes nothing,_ Sirius muses a couple of nerve-racking hours later, when the Healers drop all pretence of kindness and lead him to the cage in his shorts with choke sticks, the kind Muggle dog-catchers (may they be cursed for eternity) use when they're rounding up strays.

He has to give it to them. Those things are _effective:_ he can't move for buggerall without his air supply being cut short, even if he's _trying_ to follow their instructions. They also have the side effect of killing his focus on staying human, because he's suddenly fighting the urge to yank free, putting on his tail and legging it out of here.

"We're going to secure you now. Try and stay still." MacNair's voice is casual, almost bored. It's also, somehow, the stuff of nightmares.

Past the wild hammering of his heart, Sirius feels his incisors grow in response.

 _Deep breaths, now_ , he thinks nervously, wrenches his eyes shut, focuses the best he can.

Deep breaths only help so much, though, when his head is shoved through the hole in the cage and strapped in place, a basket kicked underneath at just the right angle to catch it when they chop it off.

And they don't help at _all_ when his arms and legs are chained up against the silver bars, spikes driven through skin and muscle and bone as all four manacles snap shut as one and the world explodes in pain.

Sirius yelps, and it's well on its way to becoming a very promising scream — but his eyes snap open just then and it dies in his throat.

Father and Mother are there, in their opera robes and looking quite regal, perched on gilded plush chairs. They're staring at him impassively, placed so they're what he sees if he opens his eyes. They're expecting him to turn, and suddenly he remembers—

 _Father's library, a haze of pain not unlike this, and he_ snapped _. Tried to bite him, inch-long fangs snapping shut so close to Father's face he could taste the fear_ —

 _Well_ , Sirius muses nonsensically, _at least Regulus wasn't wrong.  
_

The Dog growls through the white-hot pain, decides it's as good time as any for a repeat presentation. Sirius barely manages to turn it into a shaky groan.

He shuts his eyes again, grits his teeth and focuses on turning back, because the Dog is on its way out, he can just _feel_ it — that rush that's usually just an instant, right before everything shifts, when his senses are heightened, when all he wants to do is stretch out on his four paws and run.

Sirius doesn't realise he's shaking with the effort of just not moving, his breath coming in harsh gasps. His arms and legs are on fire, the Dog wants _out, out, out_ , to sink his teeth into Father, and Mother, and the whole blasted lot of them, for hurting him, for chaining him—

 _Sirius— Sirius, I'm here_. James' voice breaks through the pain. He sounds strangled, every bit as pained as Sirius feels. _What the fuck are they doing?!_

 _Hurts_. All he can think, right now, is _hurt, hurt, pain_.

"Moonrise in two minutes," a voice says. There's a scraping of chairs, the sound of a door slamming, the feel of air on his skin. Sirius keeps his eyes closed tightly, thinking human, human, _human_ , the Dog fighting to bite, to come out.

 _Fucking hell._ James curses, and Sirius thinks, _yeah, that would also describe it_. He's wondering why he's doing this at all.

"Moonrise in thirty seconds."

 _Hold on, Sirius! Just breathe!_ He would if he could.

"Twenty seconds."

 _Hold on,_ James says. _It'll be over in a minute_. He doesn't sound convinced. Sirius isn't either. He is shaking from the effort of keeping from crying out, sweat dripping into the basket below. His gasps for breath morph into sobs.

"Ten… nine… eight… seven…"

Sirius opens his streaming eyes, catches a glimpse of a crowd, some scribbling on parchment, others just staring. Father smirks, taps his cane on the floor in time with the countdown, and Sirius fears he might just give him the satisfaction, go dog, get beheaded. Get this over with.

"Three… two… one. Moonrise."

There's something cold and sharp against the back of his neck. Sirius stiffens, lets out a whimper. Inside, the Dog is raging, going crazy with pain. _Don't let them see. Don't. Human, human_ —

"I see something!" a witch shrieks. "Look at his hands!"

 _SIRIUS DON'T!_ James' horrified scream startles him—

And saves his life.

Sirius balls his fists, where his fingers were turning into paws. His sudden fright is enough to shove the Dog firmly back into its corner— only just.

"One minute after moonrise."

Gods, how long are they going to keep him here? Will they go the full hour? All night? Sirius grits his teeth harder, as the world starts to tilt violently. He won't manage an hour, he just knows it, and what will happen then?

There's shifting about, the sounds of people getting up, coming closer. There's someone prodding his side.

"Two minutes. There's no shift."

"Our apologies," someone says.

"You said he would turn," says another voice. Father. He sounds disappointed, as if someone hadn't delivered the hors d'oeuvres he was expecting. "You said pain would bring out the beast without _fail_ —"

"It would have made him turn if he were infected. And I said we weren't sure," one of the Healers answers. "But now we are. Your son is _definitely_ not a werewolf, Lord and Lady Black."

"I can see that." Mother sounds like she caught cold. "And we are so relieved…" She also sounds anything but.

" _Get him out of that monstrous contraption, now_!" And that is Pomfrey. She sounds furious. As furious as James feels.

Sirius only feels exhausted and pained.

"Looks like you weren't lying, after all," Father's voice comes next, low enough not to be overheard amid the sudden rush of movement. Sirius wrenches his eyes open, looks up at his father. "It was indeed just a _dog_ that bit you. I had to insist on the highest precautions, you'll understand." There's a tap on his head, a familiar shock of electricity that makes him cry out. "Let this teach you a lesson about befriending _strays_ , boy."

And with a swish of his robes, Father is gone. Sirius' head is searing now.

"Mr. Black, open up. This'll help." One of the Healers, a chubby young witch, pours some potion into his mouth. Suddenly, all the pain is gone. He hardly feels it as the manacles are released, the spikes removed, his wounds closed before he's even directed to sit down on a chair.

 _Sirius? How are you feeling?_ James sounds frantic. Sirius sways on his chair, watches the Healers close the gaping holes on his wrists and ankles.

 _I can't feel a thing._

"Can you walk?" The Healers are back to being all friendliness. Sirius nods, lets them steer him to his bed, where they remove the bars of silver, apologising profusely all the while. They also give him an antidote to the poison they gave him this morning — just in case.

Sirius just wants them to leave him alone. Part of him just wants to curl up in bed and shut the world out, sleep it off. The rest of him is aware of Remus, who just endured something worse, who'll hurt himself terribly if he's left alone tonight.

As long as it took the Disposal Squad to set up the whole thing, they clear off amazingly fast. In less than ten minutes, it's just him and Pomfrey, and a seething James somewhere under his cloak.

"Mr. Black, are you all right?" she asks, all kindness and things. He wishes she'd just leave, like the rest of them.

"Yeah," Sirius croaks out. "Can I go now?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Poops says, gives him some ice cold water to drink. "Oh, I am so sorry. They don't normally do it this way — you could sleep here tonight, if you'd rather…"

"It's all right, Madam Pomfrey. I just want to leave."

"I'll bring you your robes." She hurries to get them, while Sirius drains the glass of water in long gulps and tries to stop shaking.

Poops returns and hands him his school robes. Sirius tosses them on the bed, sorts through the pile of clothing and begins to get dressed.

The Nurse bustles off. The next instant, James is there, pale and sweaty and looking like someone put _him_ in that cage.

"Those _bastards_." His voice is shaking with anger as he approaches him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'll live," Sirius mutters, fastening his belt and looking for his shirt. "What time is it?"

"Fuck me—" James replies. Suddenly, his hands are on Sirius' shoulders, turning his back towards the light. "Who did this to you?"

"Do what?" Sirius asks, twists around to look — he's not sure what he's seeing at first, moves to the bathroom mirror, which proves much more enlightening. His back is covered in familiar-looking cuts and welts and purplish bruises.

 _Oh_. When he looks down, he can see his front isn't much better off, cuts and bruises blossoming over what was just skin a minute ago. He vaguely recalls spotting a Concealment Charm when he left his parents' house.

 _Well_. That would explain some of what he did in London, the phantom throbs and twinges he's been feeling since he got back.

"I _knew_ you didn't just _sleep_ over there!" James spits out, furious all over. "Shit, Sirius — this is _bad_."

"Does it look infected?" He can't quite see, and all the potions and things haven't taken care of that falling sensation. It makes it hard to focus on anything.

"No," James establishes through gritted teeth, curses again. "But it looks _terrible_. Get back in bed, mate. I'll get Poops, and—"

"Oh, just drop it." Sirius pulls his undershirt over his head, gathers up the rest of his clothes, dumps them in James' arms. "I'll be buggered if I have to stay here for another _minute_. Besides," he adds, flashes his shocked friend a grin as he yanks open the door, to leave before James can argue back. "I'm horribly late for a play date with a cranky stray."

.

* * *

.

 _Well_. Sirius regards Remus' passed-out figure with something akin to disappointment the following morning. _That was a bit underwhelming_.

He'd hoped for a good all-out fight last night — he'd been taken off-guard last moon — but the wolf wouldn't indulge him, not properly. Not for a minute.

Sirius understands Remus didn't want to hurt him again, but what the hell? What's the point in having a deadly monster for a friend, when you can't fight them every once in a while?

He sighs, wondering if this is how Remus feels in between moons: the Dog is still angry. Sure, he wore himself out, learnt to howl at the moon — and he didn't come out of this scot-free, either. He bandages Remus' leg, where he got one good bite in, levitates him to the sofa, conjures a warm blanket for him, and puts his y-fronts on his head.

He'd do a million things for Remus — dressing him is _not_ one of them.

 _Everything okay in there?_ James' voice startles him.

 _Yeah, we had another howling success. I'm on my way out,_ Sirius answers, goes dog again.

 _Poops is still in the castle. Meet you by your tree_.

Sirius decides to take a plunge in the fog-covered Lake; he still feels dirty after yesterday's little adventure, his everything started stinging something wonderful before dawn, and he's covered in sticky werewolf drool.

The freezing water feels heavenly on his midriff and back — Concealment Charms don't fix torn and battered skin — and it starts to prickle when it penetrates through the layers of fur and washes off every last trace of wolf from him. He turns into his usual self and soaks for a bit, treads water while watching a few stray blocks of ice float past him. When he emerges from the Lake and dries himself off with a wave of his hand even before James arrives, he feels better than after a long soak in the tub, and for the moment, the falling sensation is gone.

"Alright?" James asks upon arrival, handing him his robes and a cloak.

"Aye," Sirius confirms. "He's warming up to the Dog." Which is great news. Inconvenient because the Dog is itching to bite something still, but great news all the same.

"You didn't fight?" James asks hopefully.

"Not really. He was more in the mood for a recital." Sirius manages to keep his disappointment out of his tone. "Turns out, howling at the moon is actually a _thing_."

James chuckles, but his relief doesn't last.

"Did you tell him about—"

Now it's Sirius' turn to chuckle.

"I don't think the wolf knows how to communicate just yet," he says. "And I wouldn't tell him even if I could— he's _terrified_ of the Disposal Squad. With every bloody reason."

"I didn't think they'd… I didn't expect them to do _that_ , with the spikes and the chains and all," James admits, picks up a pebble from the pile Sirius has at his feet.

"Me either," Sirius admits. "Fuck James, can you imagine what it would be like for someone about to turn?"

"I don't have to," James says tightly. "That shit was…" he shakes his head, tosses a stone at the water.

"Yeah," Sirius agrees quietly. "I thought they'd go the full hour, and. Well, I wouldn't be here if they had." He tosses a stone, which chases after James'. "We'll have to be more careful when you and Pete manage to transform. We don't want a repeat of this kind of snafu."

"Listen, Sirius—" James watches him for a moment. Sirius watches the Lake, where his stones are skipping around the Squid. "You ought to see the Nurse. For… for your back and, and things."

Sirius shakes his head.

"Nah, it's all right."

"This is not _all right,_ man."

"I told you they were pissed."

"That's not pissed, Sirius. That's… That's worse than First Year."

 _It's really not,_ Sirius wants to say, but he can't remember enough of First Year to back up that statement. It's just a gut feeling, at this point, and he's too tired to even try to explore it.

"He wanted to know what bit me," Sirius answers instead. "He knew it wasn't a dog bite. If I'd said wolf—" he shakes his head, makes his next stone twirl in midair in between skips. "They'd… I don't know what they'd do. But it would've been worse."

"You remember now?" James asks.

"Bits and pieces," Sirius explains. "It's easier when I'm the Dog. Father botched his memory charms, I think. He was trying to make me think it was the same day over and over again."

"We should go to Poops," James insists.

"And tell her what?" Sirius erupts, and the world starts tilting again. "The _truth_? She'll get the twinkling coot—"

"He could help."

"Help _what_?" Sirius is starting to lose his patience. Another plunge into the Lake starts looking rather tempting. "He already suspects it was Remus, you know that," he snaps. " _Every morning_ , James. He tried his damnedest to get just the _one_ glimpse of him, you saw. What do you think will happen when it comes out it _was_ a bloody wolf bite? Eh? How long before Twinkle the Wonder Professor puts two and two together? When he calls _them_ in again? Do you really want to see Remus in that damned cage over _this_?"

James is quiet for a moment.

"So you're saying that's, what?"

"It's nothing, Potter. Just leave it alone."

"The Blacks' version of a time-out?" James presses on testily.

"Honestly, just because your parents are a pair of softies who have never so much as spanked you, you fly off the handle over every little thing," Sirius says, he can't believe it. "Wake up, not everyone has the same bloody hippie approach to education."

"So they do that sort of thing…?"

"Only when I mess up enough to make the papers." Which is an outright lie, but James doesn't need to know what passes for discipline at home. If he could, Sirius would gladly be ignorant of it as well. All he wants is to be able to pretend his parents don't exist like he does every year until the Summer.

There's a silence, during which Sirius stares at the many pebbles splashing around on the Lake. James stares at his feet. Wordlessly hands him a bottle of painkilling potion. Sirius takes it, downs it in a single swig. Instantly, he feels better.

"Breakfast?" James offers a moment later.

"Yeah," Sirius answers, summons the stones back into the pile, for later. "I could do with a good fry-up."

.

* * *

.

He doesn't get his fry-up.

He gets as far as putting a massively unhealthy, mouth-watering and delicious-looking plate together, but he doesn't get to taste a single sausage — he blames that on Remus, who just _has_ to stick his greedy paws into his food, as if it weren't enough that he already gobbled up most of the steak last night.

Just to mark this as a Really Bad Day — in case he hadn't noticed already— Sirius gets Howler for breakfast.

As he's vaulting over the table to catch the red envelope in midair and runs out of the Great Hall like the Dickens in an attempt to get as far as possible from the already jeering student population, Sirius begins to wonder if his parents slipped him a Pech Amulet again. Nothing has gone right since he went to London.

He blocks James out of his mind even before he hurtles through the doors to the Astronomy Tower, throws the smoking, sizzling Howler in the air.

 _YOU ABSOLUTE LITTLE SHIT, DO YOU KNOW WHAT RIDICULE YOU MADE YOUR FATHER AND I ENDURE?_ erupts from it, Mother's wrath slams into him in an explosion of sound. Ears ringing, Sirius manages to cast a Dead-Zone Shield, the strongest sound-containment spell he knows.

Then he does the only thing he can: cover his ears and make himself as small a target as possible.

Mother is _angry_. This isn't like his regular fortnightly Howler, this one is — pun aside — serious.

She rants on about his father's stroke — his fault, apparently, though he can't remember more than an occasional glimpse — how much of an ungrateful brat he is, when they've given him their best all his life, throws in the usual "you're-worth-less-than-the-dirt-Kreacher-just-scrubbed-from-the-lavatory," just in case he's forgotten in the past sixteen hours.

But then it's all, "can you believe those _peasants_ dare to criticise us for _your_ mistakes, all you do is blunder and fail and bring us shame, no matter what you do," and "why can't you just ever get anything right?" and "We should have bribed the Disposal Squad to cut your head off anyway, at least we'd be rid of you and your incessant failings."

But then she devolves into the usual, "you're nothing but a source of shame, of dishonour," and then it becomes a long sting of, oh why didn't he die when he got the Dragon Pox at age three, it would have made the world such a better place, she'd have let him die if she'd only known how much of a waste he would become, and Father is furious and will straighten him out, and he's lucky the press was around because Hogwarts will be a thing of the past for him the instant he gets home, it's clear they can't leave him out of their sight for one second, because all he does is fuck things up and make them look stupid, and why can't he be more of a Black, sometimes she can't believe he's actually her child and she would deny it if she could.

His head is pounding, there's a ringing in his ears that makes him dizzy, and when the Howler bursts into flame with a final screech, Sirius stares at the ashes raining down for a good minute before he realises the yelling has finally stopped.

There's _something_ about Mother's Howlers, something that makes him agree with her, and wonder the same things she's bemoaning, and without fail, a part of him always wonders why he can't be anything _but_ a fuck-up, why he can't get the smallest thing right, why he's not a better son. Some days, it's damn hard to shake the sensation at all.

Other days, he finds reasons to shake it off — no, not one has to do with schoolwork — and those days, he can snap his fingers at Mother and her displeasure, and part of him _knows_ he's not a fuck-up although he's not quite sure what he is, but he's willing to find out.

Today isn't one of those.

Today, the world tilts violently even if he's fairly sure he's not moving, and never mind the potion he had earlier, everything just aches, and he's furious and frustrated and heartbroken and wants nothing better than just get away from it all.

But of course he had to pick a bloody _tower_ to go get yelled at.

 _Maybe Mother is right,_ he muses absently, as he picks himself shakily off the floor. _Can't get anything right, ever._

He looks out onto the Grounds and beyond, wishing himself as far away from here as possible — and that's another thing he hates about Mother's invasion of Hogwarts. This is supposed to be _his_ place, his escape — but she just has to find ways to taint it too, ruin it all and make everything turn sour.

Not that it wasn't before— Ever since he managed to turn, it's all been a downward spiral, like he's in a whirlwind of mistakes blowing up in his face, and right now, he can't quite recall what made everything feel what he was doing was _right_ , like it was _worth it_.

He's not sure why he's up and swaying on the stone railing, but he can't deny the wind whipping at his robes, cooling off his overheated skin, feels good.

Then he looks down. This is a familiar sight, as well, he's stood here often, enjoying the sensation of danger that comes from knowing how high up he really is, with no broomstick to hold him up if he loses his balance, of wondering what it would feel like, if he actually fell.

Usually that is enough.

Not so today, either. Today, nothing is enough, and it feels like it never will be.

Today, for the first time, he's considering actually finding out. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do. He wouldn't have to trek down to the Great Hall, for one.

And he _does_ feel like another plunge into the Lake would do him good.

It takes no effort at all to put the two together.

 _Hey, James?_

 _What are you doing?_

 _I think I found another use for the Astronomy Tower. How high d'you reckon it is?_

 _Dude, I don't know. Ask Remus._

Sirius leans forward, tries to estimate the height. His Dead Zone Spell stretches, the rubbery bubble holds him fast.

It takes just a flick of his wrist to undo it— and then he's falling, headfirst, towards the icy water.

There's an instant, between the " _Oh shit_ " moment where his entire being recoils from the impending danger and the " _Oh well_ " moment when he just gives in to the fact that he's fucked up again, when he's perfectly aware of what he's just done and wonders how he could be so stupid.

But then all that's wiped out as he's gaining speed like nobody's business and there's the thrill of the fall, the sensation of weightlessness as he cuts through the air, when he wants to _whoop_ with exhilaration as the iron-grey waters come much too close, much too fast—

And then he slams into the water but he's still falling, plunging deeper than he's ever dived before, the sheer cold driving all air from his lungs, his skin prickling and so cold it hurts, and he gasps in water without quite meaning to but he can't cough it out, and he thinks, _the tower should be higher_.

Then there's something around his waist, heaving him up and out of the water and it's _James_ — he knows it is, it's _always_ James — James, who doesn't care that he's a fuck-up and worthless and all those things, he's still his brother by choice and never hesitates to be there, no matter how deep Sirius puts his foot in— He's always there to help him get his foot out, and it's such a soaring feeling that Sirius can't but laugh the moment he breaks through the water and air rushes into his lungs. And then he can't stop as he flies up again, gets floated to the shore, gasping for air and coughing and laughing because what else can he do?

"Let's do that again!" he guffaws when James catches him, rolls him on his side to let him breathe, shivering with prickling cold and aching all over.

"You crazy son of a bitch!" James exclaims, but he's laughing too, with relief.

"She _is_ a bitch," Sirius agrees, and for some reason, it makes him laugh harder.

"You gave me almost no warning," James berates him, but Sirius can't answer. He's laughing too hard.

Some days, he finds a reason to not give a shit about Mother and her displeasure. And those days, he feels too alive for words.

And what do you know, today did turn out to be one of those, after all.

 _Almost worth missing breakfast over_ , Sirius thinks nonsensically, as the violent spin of the world grows around him, the whirlwind he's spent the past few days in grows dark.

.

* * *

.

If there's anything Sirius _likes_ about Hogwarts, it's the catering.

If there's anything Sirius likes about the catering, it's _breakfast_.

If there's anything he _hates_ about Hogwarts these days, it's that his favourite meal and a halfway decent start of the day gets ruined by Mother. Sharp at half seven, he gets a Howler, has to leg it out of the Great Hall before it blows up in his face.

If there's another thing Sirius likes about Hogwarts lately, it's the height of the Astronomy Tower. And what at first was a bid for escape, has become his new pastime. He has to run up almost twenty storeys before the Howlers blow. But he makes up for his wasted time by taking the express route after.

 _I SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU AS A BABY! I WOULD HAVE IF I HAD JUST KNOWN WHAT SORT OF FILTH YOU WOULD GROW TO BECOME! YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHIT, THIS TIME YOU WENT TOO FAR!_

Every. Single. Morning.

 _YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A SOURCE OF SHAME, WORTHLESS STAIN ON MY MOST NOBLE NAME!_

She really is bitter about his failed werewolf attempt. Sirius can agree with that. He's bitter about their way of checking whether he was a wolf.

Mother is bitter about a slew of other things. Like his continued existence. And furiously outraged because he gave Father a stroke. And mad that she birthed him at all.

 _YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN BORN, I CURSE YOU AND YOUR RELENTLESS DISRESPECT THAT BRINGS US NOTHING BUT DISHONOUR!_

If anyone asked him about his rotten mood of late, Sirius would chalk it up to the fact he's been missing the most important meal of the day.

From the moment he's rudely awoken by James to go whack at Bludgers in the freezing cold — which is satisfying, but somehow still fails to hit the spot — to the instant he finishes harfing down his lunch, Sirius feels like a pressure pot about to blow its lid. And it's not getting easier to bear the longer passes.

 _JUST YOU WAIT UNTIL YOUR FATHER SEES YOU AGAIN!_

He feels dizzy morning to night, everything aches and throbs and hurts although his back isn't oozing anything anymore — he checks every morning before putting his Concealment Charm in place — and fun as it is every time he does it, not even leaping off the Tower helps one jot anymore.

 _HE WILL PUNISH YOU, MARK MY WORDS! I WILL WATCH HIM FLAY YOU ALIVE FOR YOUR TRANSGRESSIONS!_

Classes have never been his favourite activity at school, but now they're not just dull — they're _frustrating._ He can't focus on the inane spellwork, the stupid potions ingredients, and was it three stirs clockwise or four the other way round? Fun as it is to blow up his cauldrons every class, Sirius would be lying through his teeth if he said he was doing it on purpose.

His teachers and classmates seem to think he does, but the only thing he does on purpose is pick fights with his cousins and their friends, but even duels — which he wins only about half the time, because he's too easily distracted — have failed to do their job. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get rid of his frustration, can't focus any better, can't feel less angry at the world.

He's lost as many points as he's earned all term over the past two weeks as well, which does not endear him to the Gryffindors at all.

"Great job, Black! If you're trying to cost us the House Cup, you're well on your way!"

Sirius ignores them. He'd like to see _them_ try whipping up a cure for the hiccoughs while the world tilts and spins, or try to focus on charms when you're constantly feeling like you're falling backwards every time you sit still, or try to remember ingredients and star charts and wand movements when all your head can supply are meerkats and the world tilts at random with you in it like it's a blender.

Because that sensation hasn't left him. At night, it makes it difficult to sleep, difficult to wake in the morning, nearly impossible to focus on getting anything done.

The flashes of his Father's library aren't helping, either. They come to him at random, in bursts, triggered by the stupidest things — a whiff of old leather-bound tomes while researching for an essay; a ray of light hitting the grain of a school desk just so; whenever he looks into a fireplace at night.

It feels like a dream sometimes, one that shattered into a million pieces he keeps stumbling across, like a puzzle that comes together when he least expects it, fills a gap he's had for the longest time with rot and pain and hatred, which leaves him feeling frustrated and sad and heartbroken and nothing like himself.

The only time he feels like he's himself is when he's got his fur on, and now he's finally away from those infernal Healers, Sirius intends to spend as much time as he can in his dog form.

 _YOU DO NOT DESERVE THE AIR YOU BREATHE, FOUL BY-PRODUCT OF TREASON THAT YOU ARE!_

Everything's simpler when he's the Dog. Everything is more interesting, brighter somehow. Smells and sounds make more sense than words, and the world is _full_ of them.

There is one smell he wants to find more than anything lately — Remus, terrible sport that he is, has tried to steer him away from the trollshaws, but Sirius knows there's at least three more trolls in the Forest, maybe even one in the river, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get to have a go at them.

The human him might feel satisfied whacking at iron balls with a club in midair and picking fights with people his size — but the Dog still wants something to bite. Even the wolf was disappointing in that regard, didn't give him the fight he was looking for. Which is not polite at all, Moony hadn't hesitated to go wild on him when _he_ was angry.

So, since the wolf won't play ball… He's sure he'll find someone else who will in that thicket somewhere. And that is what he does, every time, until Remus wrestles him back to the castle, bullies him into going human, back into the spinning world where sounds distort and the Holloway Rod's marks sear whenever he moves, where he has to pay attention, and focus, and do homework and never, ever, gets breakfast anymore.

All he gets lately is yelled at.

"Mr. _Black_!" McGonagall's voice snaps Sirius to attention. He looks up at her, flashes her an ingratiating smile.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Don't 'yes, Professor' me! It's the third time I've asked you a question!"

Yep. He misses _loads_ when he hasn't got his fur on.

"What was it again?" he asks anyway, earns himself another telling-off and scattered laughter.

 _She's asking about the wand movement to transfigure an animal into a chair!_ James supplies from his seat at the other end of the room. They never let them sit next to each other, and Sirius wonders why that is. There's no harm in getting to learn boring stuff with your best friend next to you, is there? _Swish left and flick twice!_

 _Why would I want to do that?_

 _Don't do it, tell her!_

"If you won't tell me, then you can show the class how it's done. Front and centre, Mr. Black. Now."

 _Chair, Sirius! Turn the rat into a chair!_

McGonagall, Sirius finds, is rather patient with him, all things considered. Everyone else docks points after he's blanked them the second time.

Laughter bursts out in the Transfiguration classroom a moment later.

 _STAIN ON MY NAME! YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE SURVIVED YOUR FIRST YEAR!_

Sirius watches the results of his spellwork, not quite sure why McGonagall is fuming at him, pinching the bridge of her nose.

James, whom he usually relies on for pointers, is laughing too hard to be of any help whatsoever.

"What," she asks, her voice carefully controlled, "do you call that _thing_ , Mr. Black?"

Sirius thinks about it for a moment.

"Bob!" he decides, earns himself another round of laughter, as the world tilts and spins like a carousel.

" _Out_!" she snaps. "And take that horrid thing with you! Ten points from Gryffindor!"

And then the Gryffindors groan and mutter and the gargoyle in lacy, frilly underwear begins to cry loudly, thick streams of water spraying everyone in class. McGonagall jumps away from the droplets, like the cat she is. It makes him want to chase her up a tree and wouldn't that be a _fun_ thing to do?

Of course, he doesn't even get to do that. Launcelot takes care of it, his talons digging into his shoulder and wings flapping like he's frightened of Bob. But then, his treasonous owl won't let him bite Remus, either. Or James. Or anyone.

Instead, he is sent to the hallway, his weeping gargoyle clinging to him like a monkey, his owl hopping up and down his shoulder. Back to falling backwards down a bottomless pit.

 _OH, BUT ELLADORA WAS RIGHT. YOU'RE NOTHING BUT AN ANIMAL, A BEAST, AND YOU SHOULD BE PUT DOWN!_

Lunch can't come fast enough, these days.

.

* * *

.

When he finally scents fresh troll a week later, he almost can't believe it.

The world doesn't tilt or spin around when he's the Dog. Neither does he hold grudges against the universe, or his parents, or even Remus' never-ending complaints over him running away one time too many.

When he's the Dog, Sirius doesn't wonder about things. He just _knows_. As the Dog, he doesn't question or second-guess himself. He doesn't have to laugh anything off, or force himself to be civil, or worry over Concealment Charms and flashes of recollections — because he simply doesn't give a shit.

He runs a lot, when he's got his tail on.

He loves running, almost as much as he loves flying and jumping off tall structures into icy-cold water.

But what he likes the best about the Dog is, he is free then, free to explore a world of scent and vibrations and sensations, free to hunt.

He finds his prey — a twelve-foot mountain troll that smells so ripe it makes him recoil at first — in a small clearing not an hour away from the school.

And he was right.

The troll is game for a fight, and quite ready to hit back.

Sirius bares his fangs, ecstatic.

It's _on_.

.

* * *

.

When he wakes up, he's not in the Forest, but on a bed.

He sits up, looks down at his mud-stained, torn robes, or tries to. His head feels like it weighs a ton, and there's something in his eye, because he can only see half the room.

"What are you doing, Black?" the Nurse yells at him, making him jump about a foot in the air. "Get back in bed, now!"

"What's got you all excited?" he asks, confused.

"I'm not excited, I'm cross," Poops corrects him, sounding quite cross indeed. The next instant, her expression softens. "You were hit by a Bludger," she explains. "You'll have to stay the night, you've got a head injury and you're nowhere near ready to leave your bed yet. How many fingers do you see?"

Sirius feels rather more confused than before. While Poops runs her tests and tuts and huffs and gives him a potion to mend his ribcage, he thinks back and can't recall getting hit by a Bludger at all. He does, however, remember the troll quite distinctly.

… Which will only make Poops _more_ cross, so he doesn't correct her perceptions, lets her do her thing as the spinning sensation becomes sharper, choppier. It's making him feel ill. He's sick of it.

When James arrives a little later, quite ready to yell at him, Sirius isn't in the mood.

"Go away," he snaps, before he can help himself. "Just go away and leave me alone." He's never snapped at James before and meant it. Right now, he doesn't care.

.

* * *

.

When the world comes into focus, the first thing Sirius registers is that it's no longer spinning. There's no falling sensation, no aches, no feeling like he'll be sick any minute. No flashes of memories, but whole images that he finally understands, that let things fall into place. He can even focus on a whole crossword puzzle in one go.

Sirius can remember most of what happened now. Most importantly, he distinctly recalls why he's gone and done what he did, and finds it totally worth the momentary insanity. And, he decides, he won't forget again.

He's not even angry anymore.

Poops is kind enough to explain, he got a hard whack to his head, which made everything distorted and confusing. It sounds like a good enough explanation, and he decides, basking in the sensation of being grounded again, of stillness and quiet and not a hint of a tilt, going after the troll wasn't as bad an idea as he recalls Remus saying it was.

From there on out, everything suddenly rights itself so thoroughly, Sirius half can't believe it.

Some part of him must have been paying attention in class, because he manages to keep up with his lessons again all of a sudden. The professors — compelled, no doubt, by Poops' explanatory note of salvation — shower him with points and ingratiate him with his House mates.

Mother's Howlers don't bother him as much anymore, and he listens to his morning screech while noshing on enormous sandwiches, engaged in a far better pastime than leaping off the tower: thinking up ways to get the wolf off its murderous streak, of ways to get it to communicate, to learn to _play_.

Now, he knows Mother's yelling is unfounded. He _didn't_ fuck up, he's doing the _right_ thing — and he's doing it the best he knows how.

.

* * *

.

It pays off, too.

When he sees Remus stroll into the Great Hall the morning after the moon, right as rain for once and grinning from ear to ear, when he turns and catches James' and Peter's eyes dancing with joy, Sirius knows he won't _ever_ care if Moony bites the hell out of him and the Disposal Squad and the Healers from Hell come back to prod and poke next month, or the one after that, or the one after. He won't care if Dumbledore comes poking at his mind, or his Father brings out his entire arsenal of toys, or Mother yells at him until she's blue in the face.

Let them.

Because no matter what happens, _this_ makes it entirely worth it.

.

* * *

.

TBC.

Now, it's your turn to write something in that little comment box below — what you liked, what you hated, what made less sense than usual, your thoughts — I'll appreciate you all the more for it!

 **Next Up:** Orion dies. No. He doesn't _die_ , he gets killed in the most nasty ways:

His head smashed in

And his heart cut out  
And his liver removed  
And his bowls unplugged  
And his nostrils raped  
And his bottom burnt off  
And his penis-

That's, that's enough music for now lads, there's dirty work afoot.


	3. Act One: Elevatio

**Disclaimer:** This chapter is like, riddled with politics, and for those of you who have read Thirteen Moons, the first bit of this will look familiar — familiar to the point of plagiarism-only-not. I tried to sort of shorten it to the relevant bits — but as it turns out, I didn't quite manage, because they're mostly important from Sirius's perspective too. So sorry for the repetitiveness, and no, Sirius isn't aware of Remus going in. I chalk it up to shock and the fact all he can smell is burning flesh for a while.

* * *

 **In this chapter:** Sirius gets the One Ring to Drool them All (which mated with the Snoke Ring, I think), unearths his inner Slytherin, Alphard coaches the said inner Slytherin, James is on the sidelines there, Sirius gets in over his head, Walburga gets in over her head, Alphard is in over his head, all because Orion lost his head. Regulus is muchly clueless. And there is much off-screen plotting.

* * *

 **Act One: Elevatio**

.

* * *

.

The first thing Sirius thinks when his breakfast Howler fails to appear, is, _this is too good to be true_.

Then confusion sets in, as half seven turns into eight and no red envelope is in sight. Sirius frowns, celebratory mood gone, his eyes fixed on the doors through which the mail owls usually come.

"Maybe they got bored," James tells him, catching his eye.

"Maybe they ran out of insults to throw at you," Pete offers, and they both laugh. Sirius doesn't feel like laughing.

"That's not it, Pete. They never run out. Never get bored, either."

The explanation comes to him soon enough.

He spots the vultures at once; he's been staring at the doors, wondering where his morning Howler is with something like irritation. He doesn't want to be late for class over this; he's long vowed not to let his bloody parents get him detention. Those he _earns,_ he refuses to get punished twice just for existing.

Sirius watches the thirteen vultures circle the Great Hall, spots the black scrolls in their claws that announce a death in the family. When the largest one detaches itself from the group headed for the Slytherin table and lands smack in front of him, Sirius knows one of two persons has died.

He takes the scroll, examines it, ignores the bowing bird. Not Mother. The silver band is reserved for—

"What's going on?" James asks.

"Someone died," Sirius says, checks the scroll for hexes and curses and poisons. He can't believe it. He knows it in his gut. It's Father, there's nobody else who'd warrant the silver band.

It's still a shock, and Sirius is shocked because… he's in shock at all.

 _Lord Sirius Orion Soren Pendragon Black II,_

 _You are herewith informed your Lord Father Orion Rigel Saiph Black IV has passed. As such, you are now the High Lord of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Your Elevation shall begin shortly._

It's not signed, but he'd know his mother's handwriting anywhere.

Sirius lets the scroll roll itself up, watches Father's ring roll out of it onto the tabletop, as if it _knows_ , laughs at him while he's bracing himself for the inevitable. He stares at the white gold, the Black Crest. The diamonds glittering on the dogs' eyes seem to stare right back at him.

He can't think.

 _He can't think_.

Much as he hated Father, he never really wished him dead — he realises that just now. Because him dying means—

"Um, Sirius… you might want to turn around." Peter's voice is a tiny, nervous squeak.

Sirius doesn't want to turn around. Turning around would mean acknowledging this isn't one of his crazier dreams, that this is _real_. It's also very, very bad. For him, if no-one else.

"It's Father," says Regulus, a long moment later. His voice is soft, shaking. He sounds all choked up, and Sirius wonders why; life for him didn't just do a 180. "Sirius… Father is dead."

Sirius closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. There is nothing else he _can_ do, so he gets to his feet. He grabs up the ring and turns around at last, jaw clenching as his cousins and nephews and nieces and whatever else kneel before him as one, their heads bowed.

 _Bunch of hypocrites_.

Regulus doesn't kneel. He stares up at him, and damn— he _is_ crying. Sirius feels like joining in, but not for Father. He will probably snuff it before the week is over, and then it will be Reg in his place, Reg who will have to—

Sirius looks away before he completes the thought. He hopes they'll use some sort of poison. He doesn't want to give Reg nightmares. He turns on his heel, walks out of the Great Hall, feeling like he's just been called to Father's Library again.

Just when things had gotten good.

 _Bugger_.

.

* * *

.

He only wants to get away, somewhere where he can _think_.

Instead, Sirius finds himself coming to a halt in the centre of the Entrance Hall, which is filling steadily with the very people he wishes he could get away from. Especially the one witch fairly storming towards him with entirely too much purpose.

Sirius' breath catches in his throat — he's sure Father didn't die of a stroke, and even if, he didn't have anything to do with it. Even _she_ can see it, right?

She is there, right in front of him in a blinking, stares into his eyes and holds him fast.

"You better behave yourself," she hisses in his ear, her fingernails digging into his neck. Sirius nods tensely, swallows back a wince as she grabs the ring from his hand, slips it on his finger with a vindictive smirk.

Sirius clenches his fist, sucks in a breath at the sudden pain. The ring feels white hot, and a vague smell of burnt flesh reaches his nostrils. Is it _branding_ him? It feels like it is, he thinks in a panic, blocks himself off like he has for countless times, to spare James from this side of his life. He suddenly has to swallow back a bout of sickness.

"I give you Sirius Black," says Walburga loudly, her long fingernails digging into the back of Sirius's neck as she turns him towards the mass of Blacks crowding the Entrance Hall. He's seen Muggles do the same when they fish, boasting of their catch. "Heir to Orion, by birth and by right. Today we mourn his father, and he is elevated to the Head of this Most Ancient and Noble House of Black."

The witches and wizards take a knee, heads bowed. Even Regulus goes down with everyone else, still quietly sobbing. It drives it home for Sirius.

 _Father is dead._

And he is _so_ … _toast_.

"There must always be a Black to rule," Mother chants, her grip not loosening even a little, as if she's preventing him from pulling a runner, holding him in place for whatever comes next.

"Hail Sirius Black," the sea of Blacks chorus back. It's not something they mean, of course. He knows what they think of him; what they _all_ think of him. They know what he thinks of them. And yet, here they are, pretending.

When he steps on a carpet that's blacker than a moonless night, Sirius wonders why he pretends too. He doesn't know what to do — what _can_ he do, displayed in front of them like this? He can't run, he can't say, "No, thanks, I don't want this." He can't but play along, try to figure out what to do next, but even for him, this is all happening too fast to keep up with.

For years, Father has been threatening with this moment. He used to remind Sirius over and over what the stages were, what he is supposed to say, what he is supposed to do— and like some weird Pavlovian reflex, he is bloody doing exactly that.

Sirius vaguely remembers a recent time, where he had something to say about that too, a threat he called a promise, but it slips his mind every time he tries to recall what he said. He's pretty sure he knows _why_ he said it, but he can't _think_ , can't even recall his own words anymore.

Right now, Sirius doesn't feel so sure he could do _it_ , whatever it was he said he'd do. He stands there a daze, realises it's the bloody ring on his finger that won't let him string thoughts together. It's like a burning, smouldering vacuum.

When he starts to rise in the air, though, dread asserts itself. It's _happening_ , isn't it, like an avalanche in slow motion he can't run from. He's suddenly feeling like he did, that day Father found out about Snuffles. Like something terrible is about to happen.

And it does.

"By blood and birthright, Sirius Orion Soren Pendragon Black the Second becomes today, the Black Successor," Mother says, her voice carrying and loud as it reverberates through Hogwarts itself. It's an old formula, one designed to make the world listen. But, Sirius realises as the words begin to make the ring on his finger vibrate, it's not a statement— it's a bloody _spell_.

She kneels before him, her job done. Sirius can't move, his every fibre is tingling, something is shifting inside him, like tendrils of darkness bursting from the ring into his bloodstream, into every cell. He wants to say _no, I don't want this. I never wanted this_ , but he _can't_. He's bound by this magic as much as he was bound to Father in life.

"There must always be a Black to rule," the Blacks chorus back— and suddenly Sirius can draw a shaky breath. The first part of the spell is complete, and he can all but see the strands of magic linking them all to one anchor. To _him_.

Father never said _this_ would happen. He said it was inevitable, that as eldest he was bound by duty to the family, that _must_ become his successor — he never once hinted at how he'd literally be tied to them.

 _There's four stages to complete the ritual, and each must be carried out to perfection_ , Father's voice booms out at him from the depths of his mind. _Each is a test. Fail that test and die. That's the only way you can get out of becoming the Head of the Blacks. By being an unworthy waste of magic and blood_ , Father's voice adds mockingly. _Just continue as you are, and you won't so much as survive the Elevation or the Show of Support that comes with it._

Back then, Sirius had resolved he'd fail, just to spite them all. Over the years, it had morphed into a different sort of resolve — one to change it all, to do away with all of this crap, to end the Blacks as they are now.

Now, he's not so sure he could even if he tried. He _doesn't_ want to die. Not today, and what does _that_ say about him?

 _What the hell is going on, Sirius?_ James' voice erupts in his mind. It shakes something free, in him. Something that isn't a dark cord of magic but something else _entirely_ , something that vibrates and resonates within him, something that isn't shared by the other Blacks. His blood isn't entirely his own, after all, is it? It hasn't been for over two years. Somehow, not even the ring can touch that bond he has with James— not _yet_.

Sirius balls his hand into a shaky fist in an automatic reaction. He'll take the bloody thing off the first chance he gets, never wear it again.

 _They're doing it here_. Sirius can't help a wave of fear rise up with the thought.

 _What?_

 _The Show of Support. I'm screwed._

 _What's the—_

 _It's a bloody field test. Some rot to see if I can command respect from the general population. To see if people will kneel, like a popularity contest. Usually they don't do that in the open— but they're doing it here, and then it'll all go to cock._

 _Breathe, Sirius. I've got you._ James sounds confident. What the hell is he confident over?

Sirius doesn't dare turn— not outright, but he does when he hears the rustle of robes— and there is James, kneeling. A moment later, Gryffindor House goes down, most kids looking as perplexed as Sirius feels himself. And Ravenclaw, even Hufflepuff… and… when they realise they're the last ones left, so does Slytherin.

 _The hell did you do?_

 _Dude, showing my support._ "Hail Sirius Black." James' voice rings out, but surprisingly — to Sirius most of all — he is not alone. That must've been at least fifty people saying the words with him. Moments later, all of Hogwarts is chorusing it. Sirius catches a glimpse of his mother's face. It is a grimace of contempt and bitterness.

He passed the first test.

He can't even feel vindicated over it. All James did — because Sirius can't possibly hope to claim having had a hand in what just happened — was delay the inevitable.

The rest of the ritual washes over Sirius like a foggy sort of haze. Regulus is elevated too, from heir presumptive to heir apparent, and suddenly he is standing one step below him, trying to hold in his tears and stand up straight like a proper Black. Like he's been taught.

Everything acquires a surreal, dreamlike sort of quality… until Sirius is asked to name his Steward.

There is _one_ person who might help. One who _always_ helps. One who probably wants this job about as much as Sirius wants to be The Black. But what else can he do? Name Bellatrix?

"I name Alphard Betelgeuse Black as my Lord Steward."

Alfie steps forward, looking like he's going to his own funeral, and Sirius gives him an apologetic look.

"Do you accept the position that fate and blood have bestowed on you from birth?" Walburga booms from the lower step of the dais. The second part of the spell.

"To my last breath." It is what he is supposed to say, but the words stick in his throat. He meant to say, _No. Hell, no_ , even. It's not what came out at all.

"To your last breath," Mother smiles at him, and she looks benevolently at him. It sends a chill down his spine, and Sirius must admit to himself, he is scared. " _So be it_."

His fate sealed, the dais is lowered, and Sirius flinches as Mother places a hand on his shoulder, her fingernails digging into it as she makes to steer him towards the carriages.

"We'll go home now, get you out of that horrid getup once and for—"

"I need a moment with my Steward." It leaves Sirius's mouth before he can even formulate the thought. "He can help me get ready."

Something surprising happens right then — Mother lets go of him as if stung, and for an instant only, he can see the shock on her face. She isn't _meaning to_ do it— but she _obeys_.

He suddenly recalls a million times Father ordered him to do something, a million times he obeyed, or half obeyed. It was always a struggle to go against him, and suddenly he understands why. The ring of the Blacks is doing that, not him.

"Get him ready, then, _Lord Steward_ ," Mother tells Alfie, unable to keep the mocking tone from her voice, then moves away to join the other Blacks.

Sirius watches her for a moment, still reeling from this new realisation. Then he looks up at his uncle, and comes to another: he can't miss a single second of this chance he just got, his _one_ chance to try and sort this mess out in whatever way he can. The Blacks might have filled Hogwarts with spies, but here Sirius is in his element. Here, he is able to bypass them.

He won't be for long.

 _What happens now?_ James wants to know.

 _I need to talk to Alfie. I don't really know, not exactly._

Thankfully, Dumbledore approaches him to give him his — entirely unwanted — input.

 _I'll be there._ James means it as a promise. Sirius doesn't know if he wants James there. He doesn't have time to argue, either.

 _If you must._

"My most heartfelt condolences to you during this trying time," says the Headmaster, Sirius gives Dumbledore a glance, dismisses his words with a headshake. There _is_ something he needs, though.

"I need to get changed, sir. Gryffindor robes don't exactly go down well with that lot on a good day. Somewhere private," he hears himself say, then adds something his father never said to anyone. "Thank you." It doesn't come without a struggle. The urge to order people about is suddenly there, what the hell.

"Certainly, Lord Black." Dumbledore waves his wand with a flourish— a chamber appears next to the doors to the Great Hall.

Convenient.

As he dismisses the Goblins and wards the place with Alfie as fast as he can, Sirius is aware James has entered the room. He is also aware he won't be able to speak to him directly.

 _Just keep quiet,_ he tells James in his mind. _This isn't something you should be here for._

 _What's he doing?_ James wants to know. Sirius looks at Alfie glaring at him, returns his gaze with a glare of his own.

 _He's freaking out, of course. He's not dim._

Freaking out is the very least Alfie is doing. He is mad at Sirius for naming him, he realises. Mad at him, like it's all his fault. Sirius feels a sort of frustration well up inside him he's often felt before — it's born of a deep-seated sort of reproach at his family, at Alfie himself, now. What the _hell_ is it with them all and their expectations? If there's one thing Sirius knows, it is he's not putting up with any of their shite any longer.

He takes it out on the portraits first — Phineas yelps out his protests, the others mutter angrily as they're turned around — waits for Alfie to break the silence.

He does, after encasing the frames in glass.

"You're playing with fire, my Lord," Alphard snaps, and there's something in his choice of words that brings a flash of recollection to Sirius's mind:

 _Gubraithian Fire. The Eternal Flame_.

"Naming me your _steward_. _Me_. What on _earth_ were you _thinking_?"

"You were Father's!" Sirius erupts, what the hell is his problem? Alfie has been his only ally for years, the _only_ person whom he has confided in, especially since Andromeda got blasted off the family tree in the Summer. The only person aside from James he can trust, and James is oblivious to so much already. "What the hell _else_ was I supposed to do?" Face this alone? Let myself get killed? He wants to ask, but instead focuses on the here and now; he dreads the answer to those questions. "It's not like I got any bloody _warning_ —"

"Yes, I was Orion's steward, but he only did that to _protect_ me, _and_ he was actually _able to_. He was over twice your age when he took the job," snaps Alphard, runs a hand distractedly over his salt-and-pepper hair.

 _The sneaky Slytherin_ , Sirius thinks, staring holes into him. _Still thinking about his own slithery self first and foremost_. It's not unexpected— they're _all_ like that, even Andie — it's in the textbook definition of "Black".

But… he'd _hoped_. He'd hoped for _help_ , and now he doesn't even feel disappointed. Sirius feels downright _stupid_ for even entertaining the thought.

"They don't want a blood-traitor at the head of their table, even now they're thinking of ways to get rid of you — and _you_ , my young Lord— much as you resemble him, you're _nothing_ like Orion."

This does it, for him.

Sirius blinks, hit by another wave of realisation, of recollection — he remembers what he promised all of a sudden.

 _I'll burn it to the ground. All two thousand years of history of it, and nobody will even remember your fucking name when I'm done._ He'd bellowed it out, caught in a whirlwind of pain and fear and hatred… And then.

He forgot.

But now he remembers it all.

The ring in his hand gives a particularly strong twinge, the smell of burning flesh rises to his nose again. He rubs his hand, realises it's not he who is burning. The ring isn't even hot to the touch.

"Small blessings." Sirius grits out, grinning despite himself. "And stop it with the milords, damn you."

 _"_ Not blessings, _my Lord,_ but a curse, right now. For you." Alphard says, seizing him up, considering how long he has left to live, probably. "For anyone foolish enough to follow you. Particularly now we are at war. Think, Lord, _think_!"

Sirius does. He weighs his options, while Alfie begins undressing him. He's all my Lord this and my Lord that, toeing the line even if there's nobody here to overhear them. Except for James, whom Sirius wishes he _could_ talk to, but can't. Alfie would get a stroke for real; the poor bloke is as flustered as Sirius has ever seen him, and he feels a pang of guilt despite himself.

By making Alfie his closest adviser, he has also put a bull's eye on his head, which everyone will be aiming at too.

So he does the only thing he _can_ — he promises Alfie he'll be free of his position the instant the Succession is over. After that, if they both make it through this alive, Sirius will just muddle through it on his own.

The way Alfie all but throws himself at his feet with earnest gratitude gives Sirius a mix of feelings. On the one hand, it drives the point home that this is no laughing matter. This is dangerous, and frightening, and he can't even rely on his uncle for help beyond the advice he gets in the next few days.

It makes Sirius feel very, very exposed, and very much alone. On the other hand, though, he feels the slightest bit of relief that Alfie at least, will be spared from the worst of it. He can claim he was just obeying orders, that he never wanted a part in it at all.

He wouldn't even be lying.

The third realisation Sirius comes to is, he's screwed either way. Kind of like when he stands in front of the door to Father's Library, waiting to be let in to get his arse handed to him. This is no different, is it? Except worse in a thousand different ways.

It's like falling off a great height — something he is very familiar with, at least — The " _oh, shite_ " moment has passed, and Sirius finds himself plunged in the " _oh, well_ " moment. The next step, as always, is to enjoy the thrill of the way down before he slams into a block of ice because there's nothing he can do to stop it from happening.

Alfie seems to be reading his mind.

"I _am_ sorry, but I cannot protect you. Right now, no-one can. I am a baby-step away from being labelled a blood-traitor myself, and associating with _you_ …"

"I know you can't," Sirius answers. "I don't expect you to. But you _can_ speak plainly. Here. _Now_. I rather need that more. There's no-one else _but_ you, now Andromeda is gone."

His uncle has to understand that, at least, doesn't he?

And, Sirius finds, as he is stripped from his school uniform — and will he get to wear it again? — Alphard is not only very well-informed on the current state of affairs, he is also suddenly very forthcoming with information.

"Tread _carefully_. You can't go against them, not now," Alphard advises. "All that _talk_ when you visited Grimmauld Place last —"

"You heard, then." Sirius can't help smirking, now he remembers what he did. Father's stroke is further explained now.

"I did," Alphard confirms, but he isn't smiling. Rather, he looks like he'd like to strangle him, too. Sirius figures there's a long line of people wanting that, right now. "It was over the top, even for you. I can't _believe_ you told him you'd end the House."

"I told him I'd do away with all the traditions as well," Sirius points out, his memory further jogged. " _And_ that he could kiss my arse, and other stuff I remember only vaguely. Who else heard?" he asks curiously. Mother, he's willing to bet. Maybe some of the portraits. The ones he didn't destroy when he blasted the Library apart, at least.

Alphard confirms Mother knows, but her retaliation is positively mild — a thousand Howlers as punishment. Sirius hadn't even realised what she was punishing him for, and can he help it if he finds it hilarious?

"So far, nobody else knows, and you would do well in keeping it that way. It would be _disastrous_ if any others learnt of even _one_ of the things you said. They'd call it treason."

"It was, Alphard," Sirius says. "It _is_. No point tip-toeing around it." No point not keeping his promise to that bastard. That, he finds, is as good a motivator as any.

"Did you really mean it?" Alfie wants to know. There's a definite note of dread in his voice. As Sirius opens his mouth to answer, he realises…

He did mean it.

"Every word. And I'm not taking it back, am I? It's the _truth_ , Alfie," he says forcefully. "This House is a farce, a bloody theatre play. It needs burning down, and I learnt to spell up Gubraithian Fire the other day for a reason." Sirius returns his uncle's sharp glance with a shrug. " _She_ might think I don't remember, but I _do_."

"How much _do_ you remember?" Who Alfie is more afraid of, Sirius himself or his mother, he can't tell.

"Some of it. A little," Sirius admits.

"How little?"

"Enough. I think he was so mad he botched all those charms somehow," Sirius replies. "They didn't quite take."

"Your father was furious, angrier than I've ever seen him. Spoke of drowning you in the well like the cur he thought you to be."

"He does that every time he remembers he's got a shite son," says Sirius. "That's why I _broke_ the bloody well first thing in the Summer." And hadn't that been worth the shitestorm that followed.

"Orion is _dead_ , my Lord."

Sirius rolls his eyes at the reminder.

"He _did_ that every time he _remembered_ —" he revises obnoxiously, but suddenly he is being held in an iron grip. Alphard gives him a hard shake, and all Sirius can do is stare up at his uncle in shock.

"HE _MEANT_ IT!" Alphard shouts, his face inches from Sirius's own. Alphard never gets this rough. It's more than a little alarming. "If he hadn't died today… You wouldn't be alive _tomorrow_. Do you _understand_ that _, my Lord_?"

Sirius stares up at him, a choked squeak escapes his throat.

"Just this morning, before he left for the Ministry— he _decided to have you killed_. He wasn't on his way to work — he was on his way to meet your murderer!"

 _That would explain why he was at the Ministry so early._ Sirius thinks nonsensically. He doesn't recall Father ever having left the house before eleven in the morning.

"I gather you weren't aware," Alphard says, like nothing happened at all. "I take it Mycroft hasn't even arrived with the news yet, has he?"

Sirius shakes his head, he'd recognise Alfie's owl anywhere. His mind is reeling. This, while not altogether surprising, wasn't something he'd expected. It's hard to swallow back the yelp that's trying to fight its way out of his throat, harder still with James' alarmed yelling in his head.

 _He what?!_

 _You heard,_ Sirius thinks back at him, chills running down his spine. _I'm guessing... our row was a bit bigger than I thought._

 _Shit, Sirius— you've got to get out of there._

 _I can't._ That is one thing he knows now. _Not until this is over._ But it will never be over, will it? Not until he dies. Which might be sooner than even he thought. What he's feeling right now is the exact opposite the Hat puts you in Gryffindor for.

"You're extremely lucky," Alphard adds, all business again. "His death bought you time, but your mother is aware of Orion's plan, she told me all about it earlier. Now — they can't kill you outright anymore. Not this week, not _if you play your cards right_. You have to bury Orion before they can bury _you_."

"Okay, noted," Sirius nods, trying hard to keep his voice steady, to move on to what he can actually _do_ about it. And for that to occur, he needs to know, "What's next?"

Next, apparently, is a cocktail that tastes like troll piss and erases every last mark of his father's canes and rods and things from his midriff. It tingles and itches, but by the time he's drained it, he feels better than he has in _months._ All of a sudden, he can move again without everything hurting, he can _think_ without the constant cloud of despair over his head. For a moment, even his hand stops searing.

"So," Sirius asks, rolling his shoulders experimentally. If nothing else, he decides, he'll have Alfie make these in bulk. The potion is _good_ , even if it's a bit of an acquired taste. "What happened?"

"He was murdered, Lord. Horribly murdered. They are saying it was a coup, but it was revenge."

"Rightfully?" Sirius's eyebrows snap up. This is _loads_ more interesting than a stroke. He should have led with this question, he realises. This is actually something he wants to hear everything about.

"Yes, Lord."

"Natural causes, then." It comes out lighter than he thought, and even Alfie can't help laughing with him. The next thing he has to say, though, wipes Sirius's grin from his face.

"Your mother has requested a private audience with you upon arrival in London, before you go pick up your late father."

"I figured," Sirius mutters with a grimace. There's the dread in the pit of his stomach again, and what will Mother do this time? He has seldom had to deal with her, their relationship limits itself to her Howlers or casting two curses at him — the Bone-Breaker, and the Cruciatus — and even those are rare, reserved for when he really pisses her off enough to be arsed to raise her wand.

With Father gone, though… " _Shite_."

Sirius falls silent as he ponders the weight of what he's just learned, while Alfie does short work of undressing him fully, tosses his clothes into the fire, shoes and all.

As he watches his things catch fire, he wonders how he can get out of this one. He has to outsmart, outslither, and outcunning the bloody _epitome_ of Slytherin House, but all he has right now, is a bloody burning ring, a reluctant aide, and a dead father, whose last living wish was to see _him_ dead.

Sirius rubs his fingers, grimaces, and Alphard glances down, stops adjusting his new — thank Merlin, not cursed — tie to examine the signet ring.

"It hurt your father too, at first," he says thoughtfully. "Ate away his humanity."

"I guess it's really hungry, then," Sirius says tightly. "He never had much of it to begin with."

Alphard chuckles in agreement, returns to his task, like this is perfectly normal. For him, perhaps, it is.

"How do I stop it?" Sirius asks. "I can't take it off, and it burns."

"No, you cannot. Not until this is over, and even then it will be hard, if not impossible. Give it _something_ to feed on," Alfie suggests. "Something that's an inherent part of you, something you won't miss not getting back."

 _Shite_. Sirius wonders what he _can_ give it, if he'll never be rid of this damned thing.

 _Something I won't miss, Alphard said_. Something he doesn't want. Something he doesn't _need_.

While Alfie finishes dressing him, wraps him in robes as dark as the event horizon of a black hole, brings out a bottle of celebratory ice wine, the ring burns harshly, as though it is aware that Sirius knows it is due its sacrifice. He wasn't joking; it is _ravenous_.

"To you, my Lord. Long may you reign."

Sirius snorts, shakes his head in defeat, but he raises his glass in toast.

"Here's looking at you, Lord Steward. May _you_ survive this in mostly one piece." He drains his glass — the wine is delicious. It also goes straight to his head. It's not the worst feeling he's had, today.

 _Being the Head of this Most Noble and Ancient House is not for a meek weakling. Being The Black means being alone in the crowd, above them all. It is a life of sacrifice, of service. Like it or not, this is your fate._

Father loved reminding him of this. This, too, was a literal thing, not a metaphor or analogy. Sirius can't help but wonder, what _else_ did Father say that he should take literally now?

"Make sure you don't eat anything," Alphard says next, brushing some invisible lint from Sirius's robes. "We have to pick up your father and from what I hear, you'll fare better on an empty stomach. I hope you aren't queasy, it appears he met a grisly end."

"And you'll give me every detail, of course?" Sirius asks curiously. It's funny, how easy it was to accept Father's death since he heard it was a horrible murder. What he deserved, no more and no less.

"I'll tell you everything along the way, my Lord. Now, don't forget to thank each of your relations for coming here and for their kind support…"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll behave."

He does.

 _Sirius—_ James sounds worried in his head.

 _I'll be in touch._ Sirius blocks James off as gently as he dares — he has never before done so in his presence, but there's a reason his best mate believes he spends most of his Summers bored out of his mind and in his bedroom. Sirius isn't sure he's ready to let James into this portion of life, and right now he can't focus on the voice inside his head.

Outside, the Blacks are waiting for him, to take the first carriage and head the procession to Blackmore End. He thanks them all for coming, like Alfie told him to, is surprised to find looks of animosity and outright hatred only in around half of them. The little kids don't count; they're all too young to understand, and most give him earnest smiles, adoring looks. They're mostly okay, until they reach Hogwarts age and hate him like the rest.

Something else has changed, though — the ring is vibrating more and more with each hand he shakes. It's playing with his emotions, and theirs. Strengthening the bond. Tightening the noose.

Sirius can't get into the carriage fast enough.

.

* * *

.

The Kinross Brougham circles the skies, at the head of a procession Sirius hadn't expected at all. It isn't drawn by Thestrals like the rest, but by six silver-grey winged horses he knows full well: They are the best Aethonans in Alfie's stables. Aster, his very own (a birthday present from Alfie nobody is supposed to know about) is leading the rig, hooves working as though running in midair. Sirius wishes he could just mount and take to the skies, just fly until he's as far away from this as he can.

Not that he's had much time to admire the view. Alfie has made sure of that.

"It was a revenge killing, Lord," Alfie tells him before they have even left the Hogwarts grounds. "A young wizard, by the name of Ernest Franklin, whose father Orion condemned to the Dementor's Kiss earlier this week. It appears the young wizard was convinced of his father's innocence… and it has come to light, as of the weekend, that the trial was not… let us say, in keeping with the newer standards of wizarding law."

"Let me guess, he dismissed the exculpating evidence again." It's not the first time Father has done that sort of thing. Did. Whatever.

"Based on a witness of character of rather shady disposition, procured for the occasion," is the confirmation.

"Because the father was Muggleborn and married a Muggle?"

"You're sharp, my lord. The wizard's son cornered your father in the Ministry's lobby, cut off half of his head and set him on fire."

Sirius whistles through his teeth.

"And then he blasted him to bits. It was a horrible way to go."

 _No less than he deserves_ , Sirius thinks. Would it look terribly bad if he thanked the young wizard for doing the world a service?

"What happened to his killer?"

"Dead, Lord," Alphard says. Sirius finds it very sad. "Tiberius Shacklebolt, a Hit Wizard on his way home, saw what was happening and acted on the spot."

"He didn't suffer?"

"I believe your Lord Father was aware of everything—"

"Not _him_ ," Sirius gives Alfie a dismissive wave. "The other one."

"Felled by a single curse, Lord."

"That's sad, don't you think? That he died?" Sirius comments. Alfie doesn't answer. Instead, he starts rolling out a schedule.

"We will go collect and prepare the body after you see your mother. It will have a special guard, day and night for three days and nights. During the day, there shall be multiple appearances for you. You will act the bereaved son throughout, but don't let them see you cry."

"That's easy, at least," Sirius comments despite himself. Alphard snorts without humour.

"The press will be there, Lord. It is _them_ who must believe you're genuinely mourning. Mind what you tell them."

"Why would they want to hear anything I have to say?"

"Because you're not just a child wizard anymore. You're The Black, and whatever you say— anything at all — will be heard by everyone. Tread carefully around the press, Lord. They could spell trouble for you."

The trip to Blackmore End takes over two hours — they're taking their jolly good time until Sirius is ready to land — and during this time, Alfie basically spills every last detail of things Sirius ought to be aware of, things he must beware of, things he shouldn't know but now does, and his head is pounding with the information overload before long.

"Your mother will want the regency, you don't need me to tell you that, and our laws support it — you're nowhere near of age," Alfie informed him not five minutes into the flight. "What _that_ will cost her, depends on you. Always remember, a good negotiation is key."

"Don't forget our position on blood purity," comes a bit later, when Alfie is making sure he's up to speed with everything Father left behind to sort out. "Especially now your father was murdered by a Muggleborn, it will be something everyone will ask you about."

Who knew there was so much to consider in wizarding politics? Dull as he's always found the topic, Sirius tries to take it all in, make sense of it before they land, come up with a plan.

And there's been _plotting_. Merlin's most curly-toed slippers, there's been so much plotting, in fact, that Sirius is having trouble remembering the details of every Plan A, and B and C for every blippin' possible scenario Alfie has been coming up with, added to the ones Sirius has been thinking up. Gods, all they need is _one_ workable strategy. Alfie has given him over fifty possibilities in the past hour alone, his every other sentence starts with, "but what if…"

 _Gods, is this what Slytherins live like every day?_ Sirius wonders wearily. _No wonder they all end up going dark_. He rubs his eyes as they're flying around London in a sort of lap around the country. Aethonans are fast, faster than the latest Nimbus — James and Sirius have often raced each other and none of James' broomsticks have ever beaten Aster — and the Thestrals drawing the carriages with the rest of the family are tiny pinpricks in the distance.

Sirius finds that's about as close to them as he wants to be right now.

He gets up to pour himself some tea — the carriage has no lack of comforts, he'll give Father that; there's a bedroom, a study with a library, comfortable sofas and even a kitchen where an elf is ready to make him snacks — and tries to clear his head, absently kneading his stinging hand.

"You _still_ haven't given it something to feed on?" Alfie asks, sounding mildly curious, even impressed. He is sipping on ice wine, but Sirius needs a clear head before he faces his mother; he needs a _very_ clear head until this is over.

Sirius shakes his head.

"I… I don't know what to give it, Alfie," he admits. "I can't even think straight— I just feel exhausted."

"Because you haven't given it your sacrifice," is the maddening response. "Your father wasn't fond of it either, at first. It changed him."

"What," Sirius quips, "you'll tell me he was human, now."

"He was, a little," Alfie confirms. "He was kinder, before he took the ring. He had a heart." There is a silence, broken only by Sirius pouring himself a strong cuppa. Alfie continues when Sirius all but collapses into the leather couch in front of him.

"He understood that he would have to be unyielding, uncompromising, ruthless, even cruel as The Black. So he did what every Black did before him. He sacrificed his humanity, for the sake of the Family. It allowed him to lead."

"I'm not doing that," Sirius says. His voice is shaking, though, he is aware he'll have to give the thing _something_ , and soon.

"It's eating your life force now, and it will until you decide what it _can_ have. Your father used to say he had to feed it, he did whenever he had to make a difficult decision."

"Or see me," Sirius mutters before he can help himself.

"Yes." The confirmation comes as no surprise. What Alfie says next, though, is. "You might want to think about what _you_ will need to be The Black," he says next, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. Sirius has heard him use that tone exactly once before. After Snuffles, when he ran away the first time. Sirius looks up at him, swallows hard.

"Maybe it's not ruthlessness, maybe it's not cruelty. Maybe what you need is something none of us will expect, because you are not like any of us, young Lord. Give the ring that which is keeping you from having that which you need most. Preferably soon," Alfie adds, his businesslike tone back full force. "We can't spend the rest of the day flying around the country. I don't want the horses winded, and we have a long day ahead."

Sirius looks out the window, watches Aster's powerful wings beating the air. He doesn't _ever_ want to land. He dreads what will happen when he reaches Blackmore End, when this semblance of safety crumbles into nothing— when he is alone with _her,_ at her mercy, and theirs. He dreads what they'll do to him, too; there's _so many_ of them and just one of him, he feels so small and powerless and he can't hope for any kind of help except for Alfie who is chicken shit, and… He is afraid, truly _afraid_. He's so bloody scared he can't even think straight—

 _Oh_.

It finally clicks.

He stares at the ring in his hand, at the moving silver dogs, the wand, the star. They seem to be staring back, expectantly waiting to get their dues. Hungry.

 _Put on your fat pants,_ Sirius thinks. _You're in for a bloody feast_.

"You can have my fear," he says at a whisper. " _All_ of it. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to be powerless."

It's like a breath of fresh air.

Sirius straightens up, feeling like he can take on the world all of a sudden. He doesn't feel a shred of dread, and his mind is unusually clear. The ring feels cool on his finger, vibrating and satisfied.

"Take us in, then, Alphard," he says to his surprised uncle a few moments later. "I'm ready for that bitch." Not his usual choice of words, but they can suck it if they don't like it.

He spots Blackmore Hill before he sees the old palace, which even from outside looks large enough to comfortably accommodate the over one hundred Blacks still flying in line behind him somewhere.

Sirius pats Aster and Starlight upon leaving the carriage, feeds them some sugar lumps behind Alfie's back, allows the elves to take them for a well-deserved rest before they go to the Ministry later.

.

* * *

.

" _Imperio_!"

The curse hits him the instant he crosses the threshold to the large drawing room of the palace; there are several, Sirius remembers from his stay a few years earlier, when some doddering old grand-uncle died.

Sirius gives his mother a mildly disappointed look.

"Hello to you too, Mother," he says, and the curse dissolves into nothing. "Still trying to get that one to work, I see."

"There are a few things we need to talk about," Walburga's voice is taut as a rope about to snap in two. "Sit," she orders, and Sirius finds himself propelled against a couch he can't forget. It usually sits in her drawing room in London, though.

He has to give it to her. Her methods might be as unlike Father's as they can be, but they are no less effective.

Father had rods made of this stuff. Mother had taken all the broken ones, made an entire cohort of elves die weaving them into this couch. Instantly, Sirius is assaulted by a sharp, familiar sort of pain and worse. It makes all the blood drain from his face.

 _Worthless. Scum. Filth. Disgrace. Shame_ , the couch seems to be trying to fill him with these feelings and more, but most of all, it fills him with the same sort of dread he's just fed the ring of the Blacks with.

 _Have it all, you bastard ring,_ he thinks desperately, a cry fighting its way out of his throat — and the ring… _eats it all up_. Sirius glances down at it, the dogs are moving around, chasing each other around the band, no longer skinny. They're filling out, and he has to squint to make it out, but suddenly they look a bit… healthier.

He likes them better well-fed.

"You will do as you are told," Mother says triumphantly. She is blind to the fact the Holloway Couch isn't doing shite to him, though.

"You will cease all association with James Potter, that halfbreed, and the pathetic fat kid," she orders imperiously, disdain coating her every word. "I don't like them. You will befriend the likes of the Bonhams, the Pilliwickles, the Pokebies—"

"Don't waste your breath, _Mother_ ," Sirius interrupts, gets comfortable on the couch. "I'll do no such thing." He takes an instant to note the tone that has left his mouth. It's the one he reserves for Snivellus, for Bellatrix.

It fits, he finds.

"I am not asking you to." If she is at all surprised by his tone, or by the fact he isn't screaming while sitting on her Holloway Couch, she is hiding it exceedingly well.

"You," Sirius says, "will have to make me, then."

"Oh, I will, you cocky little berk—" She always liked a challenge.

But then, so does Sirius.

"Want to bet, _Mother_?"

"Make it interesting."

"Certainly, Lady Black." Sirius gets up, and _now_ she looks shocked. "Have a seat, this one doesn't agree with me." He helps her along with a flick of his wand, and now their places are reversed.

Mother lets out a squeak. Sirius watches her writhing on the couch, takes in the tears glistening in her eyes. He finds it a little disappointing; he'd hoped for some manner of revenge here. All he feels is that this is only fair.

"You and I both know we don't want me in this position," Sirius tells his weeping mother.

"You should have died—" her voice is tight, coming through furiously clenched teeth. "Your father wanted you dead."

"And I wanted to _quit_ , remember?" Sirius snaps back. "You— _you_ wouldn't let me! Neither of you would even bloody hear of it!"

"You are the eldest— you _must_ take the ring."

"And I have, haven't I?" Sirius erupts. "Now here you have me, is it everything that you expected?"

"You're a disgrace, a joke on a throne." She is crying now, with pain or fear, Sirius cannot tell.

"Are those tears for Father, Mother?" he asks dryly. "I hadn't pegged you as the type."

"I weep for my House," is the answer, and now she's beginning to get loud. "For my _Blood_!"

"You do that," Sirius replies. "You have every reason to."

"Let me go!"

He turns away from her, looking around the room at all the priceless antiques, the invaluable dark artifacts kept and maintained by generations of Blacks. He's thinking a garage sale would not go amiss.

"Why? I thought you like that couch. It's a pity you don't use it more often."

"I am your MOTHER!"

"And I am your son, I thought we'd established that," he replies, scratching himself behind the ear. "Therefore, now dear Papa copped it, I am The Black. That's how it works, I've heard."

"You shall _not_ disgrace us in front of the world!" She is screeching, tears spilling from her eyes freely now. "You will behave like a proper Black and you will _do as you're told_!"

Sirius feels a smirk coming out. She just gave him the _one_ working strategy he needed.

"Let's say I play along with your little crowning thing here," he says softly. "I expect you to do your part and play along too."

"Shut your mouth, you!" Mother screams. "I will never—"

"Fine," Sirius says casually. "Then you can kiss your precious House goodbye."

"You cruel child, let me go— You wouldn't dare!" She's got a quality death stare, Sirius establishes. He gives her a little shrug, a little smile.

"You have no idea what I would dare, Mother."

"What do you want?"

"First, your cooperation. An oath to do no harm."

"You break my heart! I AM YOUR _MOTHER_!"

"You should have remembered that before today," Sirius's tone is cold. Years of putting up with her crap, with Father's, are rolled into his every word. "All you _ever_ did—"

"What _could_ I do, Sirius?" her tone is pleading now. It's not something he's ever heard from her before. "You were his, always _his_! What _could I have done_?"

 _"_ _Something_!" Sirius shouts, furious. "All you _ever_ did was stand there and _watch_! Well, now you can do that again, from right _there_!"

"I won't let you—" she makes to stand from the couch, but Sirius knows how impossible that is. Still, she tries, even manages to sort of lift her bum an inch.

"Park it!" he snaps, and she falls back down onto the cushion, pinned down by his silent spell for good measure. "You won't touch me again. You _shall never—_ touch me again. Not Reggie, either. _Swear_ it." He stares at her, wand aimed at her face. "Swear it, or you can just shrivel up on this bloody couch and we can shovel what's left of you into the mausoleum together with that bastard."

"I never wanted to hur—"

"I don't _care_ what you _wanted_!" Sirius shouts. " _SWEAR IT_!"

She does.

A proper Wizarding Oath not to harm him or Regulus by hand, wand, or word, punctuated by her tortured cries, their glowing, bound hands bathed in her tears as she swears never again to hurt him or Reggie, but please, please let her go, he is breaking her heart.

By the time it's done, Sirius finds it amazing that he had to do this just to ensure his own mother won't kill him or his brother.

He nods to himself, turns to leave.

"Wait— Where are you _going_?!"

"Why, to collect dear Papa from the Ministry," Sirius answers, already at the door. "Don't spend the rest of the day lounging, Mother. There are over a hundred and twenty guests for you to entertain."

"Stop! You can't just leave me here!"

"You know? You do look tired, Mother," Sirius tells her lightly. "Father's death got to you rather badly, you need your rest. Someone will collect you," he repeats back to her what she has told him countless times, before she left him on that bloody thing for hours.

When he closes the door behind him, he can't believe what he just did.

He sees one of his mother's elves shuffling past, makes up his mind in an instant.

"Kreacher," he calls after it.

"Yes, Master?"

"The Lady Black is not to be disturbed until lunchtime," he says, pauses for a moment. Part of him is sickened at what he's doing— and, he realises with a pang, this part was completely silent while he was putting his Mother on the bloody torture seat. Even now, he is completely disinclined to go back and let her get up. She deserves a taster of what she does to people. To him.

So that is how the bloody ring works. He's not fearless— he's becoming reckless, too.

He thinks about it for a moment, decides this, too, is fitting. They can suck on a pineapple if they don't like it.

Sirius pulls one of Alfie's potion vials from his pocket almost reluctantly. For his plan to work (because he suddenly has one), he'll need to give her _something_. For her troubles.

"Give her this after her aperitif, with my compliments. She _must_ drink it." She'll probably think it's poison, he realises, wishes he had the time to stay and watch.

"Yes, Master." Kreacher leaves, putting the vial in his loincloth. It's like he can't hear the whimpering coming through the drawing room door at all.

But then Sirius spots Uncle Cygnus strolling down the hallway on his way to the lav, hears the noise of countless carriages arriving, and decides he's been here long enough.

He steps back outside through one of the side doors, to see Alfie waiting by the carriage, a dozen goblins with him.

"What's this, then?"

"You need to pick your personal goblin, Lord," Alfie tells him. "To run your official errands and help you with your personal affairs."

"Ugh. I don't—"

"You'll _need_ one," Alfie tells him. "At least one. Trust me on this."

"Er… well." Sirius shrugs, looks them over. He ignores Father's ones, which takes care of eight of the lot, then focuses on the last four. Two of them are the ones who were flanking Mother earlier, so not an option— the last two are as different as could be. One is large and stands there with his chest puffed out— probably a butler. The other looks kind of dejected, small in comparison to the rest.

"What's your name?" Sirius asks.

"Thrasher, Master."

"Where do you work?"

"The… the stables, Master," the goblin mumbles. "Forgive me, Master."

"You know what? I like you. How about you come with us?" Sirius offers.

 _"_ _Yes_ , Master!" The way the goblin's face lights up tells Sirius he's made the right choice. This goblin is probably the only one that will actually not betray him outright. He picks the butler goblin too, to take care of his affairs here, pick out his bedroom, make sure nobody slips him cursed clothing, that sort of thing.

Something tells him he'd best sleep with one eye open, from now on. Thinking like a Slytherin, he decides, is exhausting. Time to make things a little more bearable, then.

"You will not need our services, Lord?" Asks Biter, or Ripper, or Shredder. Father's goblins are all named like guard dogs.

"Now you mention it…" Sirius gives them all a wide smile. The rest of the goblins look rather sour when he appoints them to guard and entertain Reg and the younger Blacks. Father's goblins especially are like, definitely not cut out for babysitting— but it'll keep them busy.

"Lord, we are your late father's most trusted aides," the meanest of the lot says in a gravelly voice. "We accompanied him to hundreds of meetings and negotiations with the International Magical—"

"I know," Sirius replies innocently. "You're like, the best goblins in the world."

"Yes, Lord, and therefore—"

"Therefore I'm entrusting the most important thing to you. Them." He gestures at the twenty-odd under-thirteens emerging from the carriages with their harassed-looking elves and parents. "They're the future of this family! What kind of Lord would I be if I didn't give them the best aides I had to offer? I _know_ you'll do _brilliant_ , Ripper."

Sirius climbs on the carriage before he bursts out laughing. Alfie chuckles, climbs in after him. "Let's get cracking, then," he says, claps his hands together.

"Your mother…?"

"She's… resting in the drawing room. She's very shaken up by Father's death, apparently. But she's a Black, she can deal with it," he adds, as they take to the skies. "Now listen up you two, I have a plan."

"We are all ears," Alfie says, and Thrasher perches on a chair nearby.

"You said there would be press there?" Sirius asks, and Alphard nods, frowning. "Good. Send owls to the WWN, the Prophet, whoever else you can think of. Tell them I'll give them interviews, before I get to Father. Give the WWN and the Prophet the exclusive in the Atrium."

"You're not planning to—"

"Disgrace the family? Heavens, _never_ ," Sirius gives him an affronted look. "You did mention they'd want to hear what I have to say."

"Yes," Alfie answers cautiously.

"There's a _lot_ of things I suddenly want to talk about," Sirius says, gives him a crooked smile. "Starting with the poor Muggleborn who was wrongly tried and our collective shock at the state of affairs in the world."

"Oh, you little _Slytherin_ , you." Alfie gives him a very proud look; he's caught on. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"You know, me either," Sirius admits, and laughs. "But I want that lot on their toes, and something tells me I'm going to enjoy this immensely."

.

* * *

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 **TBC.** If you've read this far, do tell me what you think. It really helps!

 **Next up (In hopefully one chapter, but no promises)** : Sirius takes his inner Slytherin out for a spin and brings the family together in ways nobody has anticipated, Walburga loses her head (not literally, sorry) and messes up like only she can, Voldemort gets a cameo, James gets a cameo, Bellatrix gets a job she won't manage to do, Sirius meets Sirius and Cygnus and Betelgeuse and a bunch of other rich, interesting characters, and Orion is displeased. Dispersed. Dissolved? Dissomething'd.

ETA to avoid confusion: Thanks Kunoichi, for pointing this out! Walburga doesn't know Remus is a werewolf (if she did, she wouldn't rest until he's put down), but he's the kid of Muggleborn wizards, so in her worldview it's just as bad. That's why she calls him a halfbreed (and worse).


	4. Act Two: Sepultura PtI

**Disclaimer:** Special Orion effects provided by Filibusters' Fabulous Fakes. Read at your own risk and bring your own puke bucket. Ask your doctor or pharmacist. Parental guidance advised. Always read the label. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Do not stamp. The author shall not be held responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Contains non-milk fat. Harmful if ingested. May contain nuts. Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear. If ingested, do not induce vomiting. Do not read on a full stomach. Any resemblance with anything remotely real-life related is just you imagining stuff. Get some sleep and don't read too much into this. Repeat as necessary. Do not look directly into light. Please remain seated until the web page has come to a complete stop. DO NOT DELETE THIS LINE -

* * *

 **In this chapter:** Sirius brings the family together in ways nobody has anticipated, Walburga puts her foot in it, there's lots of structural engineering details to take into account, Bellatrix gets a job she won't manage to do, Sirius meets Sirius and Cygnus and Betelgeuse and a bunch of other interesting characters, and Orion is Dis… dis… displeased? Dis…assembled? Dismembered! That's the one.

 **This chapter is dedicated to MilyMB** , thank you for your loathing! It helped loads, as you can see.

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* * *

 **Act Two: Sepultura Pt.I — Finding Orion**

* * *

.

"It's a risky proposition, Lord," Alfie says, when half an hour later, they're circling London once again. The carriage and flying horses look to anyone paying attention, like a fast-moving cloud or settling fog.

"Oh, stop it with the bloody _Lord_ ," Sirius mutters, but he's looking out the window with interest. There's a bunch of magical reporters on the street below, waiting for them to land. "Riskier still is not doing shite about it, and you know it. If I give them so much as a five-minute head-start, they'll out-think me, out-debate me and out-manoeuvre me before I can react."

That was exactly what his mother did this morning at Hogwarts. It was a bloody ambush; Sirius was shoved and frightened into the first ritual, and while he's aware that now it's either completing the Succession or copping it, he's not letting _them_ call the shots again.

Of course, he's not _entirely_ sure how he's going to do that, just yet— but the overwhelming shock and fear are a thing of the past, and he is amazingly… focused, sure of himself, even. The ring of the Blacks takes care of that. He's not entirely sure what else it does, but for now, he's incredibly comfortable with it.

"There's only a very slim margin this is going to work, you _do_ realise that?" Alfie asks him nervously.

"If it doesn't, I'll not make it to next week anyway. You said yourself they must wait for me to bury Father before they bury me," Sirius answers, turning to look at him. "Which makes this a rather important week, don't you think?"

It is, Sirius has realised now his brain is actually no longer fogged by fear, his only chance to get as many hits in as possible. Come this evening, he'll be surrounded by _them_ all day and all night; he needs to take advantage of this moment, the last bit of freedom he is allowed before he is stuck in the ultimate Snake Pit again.

Father ruled the Blacks and the Wizarding World with an iron fist, everyone is used to that — and Sirius resolved, at some point between shaking off that Imperius and leaving Mother's drawing room, that he'll give the Blacks exactly that.

They're expecting a child with a child's mind, and they're underestimating him; they won't anymore in a bit, and he has to make sure he stays a few steps ahead of them at all times. He can't waste a second; he's sure that at Blackmore End, the entire family is already plotting how to best get him out of the way and make themselves look good while at it.

No matter what they do, they'll ensure that it's not traced back to them, which, he's realised, limits what they _can_ actually do. They can't poison him outright for fear of an enquiry, they can't just execute him. Maybe Father could, but not them. Not just yet, at any rate.

His only chance is to keep them focused on something that isn't him, and that's where he's hitting a snag. Getting that oath from Mother won't be enough, there's another hundred-odd witches and wizards who aren't bound by it, who aren't bound by anything except a flimsy line of magic until the Accession is complete and they can't go against him even if they try. Until then, though, he's fair game.

Sirius decides, if they want him dead so badly, he'll bloody make them _work_ for it.

The Black ring helps. Where before he'd been too shocked and overwhelmed to properly think, it's not even lunchtime and he has already come to terms with the fact that, aside from advice from Alfie, he won't be able to rely on anyone's help but his own.

It also helps that he's grown up testing the limits of the myriad rules all the Blacks intuitively toe without question; he knows how far he can go without consequence, what will set them all off, how he can manipulate them to—

"They could act sooner," Alfie says, interrupting Sirius's plotting. "Make it look like an accident."

"Then we'll just have to keep our eyes open," Sirius replies matter-of-factly.

"Well, yes, but—"

"They won't be able to do _anything_ if there's cameras all over the place," Sirius interrupts. "They're _terrified_ of looking ridiculous in the news, of any kind of scandal. So, I'll keep them focused on a good chance for both, and work around them the rest of the time. I bet you anything you want," he adds cockily, "this _will_ work."

"I've always liked wagers," Alfie answers, after some consideration. "Especially wagers I can easily win. What say you to one thousand Galleons?"

"You're on, old man. I do need a new broomstick."

"But what do _I_ get if you lose?"

"The satisfaction of knowing you were right," Sirius replies flippantly, making his uncle laugh. "And my wand. But only _after_ I'm dead, Alfie," he warns when he sees his eyes light up with undisguised greed. "Not before."

Slytherins, _honestly_.

.

* * *

.

"Don't forget you're mourning your dear Papa," Alfie reminds him, as the horses canter to a halt in the packed street and Sirius is getting ready to step out of the Brougham. He looks questioningly at his uncle. "That means, you're _sad_ he's gone."

"Right," Sirius answers, righting his robes and making sure his wand is in his pocket.

"Sad means, you _don't_ smile like that." Alfie is clearly doubting his acting skills. "At least _try_ to look unhappy."

"And _you're_ mourning your beloved brother, so at least put on a poker face," Sirius retorts insolently after giving him a mischievous glance. "Thrasher, do get the bier ready, and look like you've been forced to console us all morning."

"Yes, Master!" the goblin looks almost too excited, in his perfect black-and-silver livery, as he gets everything ready.

"You still don't look sad," Alfie points out.

"I will in a second — hit me with a Conjunctivitus Curse, Alfie," Sirius instructs, and an instant later, he is wiping at his streaming eyes. Gods, this stings and _itches_. "Gah, could you be a bit less proficient? Alright. Let's get this show on the road."

"They want gossip, your opinions, statements. That will not change, Lord," Alfie reminds him, his hand on the handle. "It will only get worse as time wears on. So mind what you say to them, and how you say it, and for God's sake, boy. Do _not_ throw dirt on the family."

Sirius finds this is solid gold, by way of advice.

"I'll do better than that, Alfie," he sniffles. Alfie gives him a hanky.

"I'll hold you to it, Lord."

"Oh, stop it with the _lord_ ," Sirius mutters, flashes his uncle a last grin— and steps out of the carriage to an explosion of camera flashes and confused yelling.

.

* * *

.

It takes Sirius over twenty minutes to cross the street to the phone booth that will give him and his uncle access to the Ministry of Magic. He allows the cameras to get a good shot of his puffy-eyed face, focuses on a loss that actually makes him sad to make everything more realistic, and gives a host of statements for the jostling reporters— which, he surmises, are called "the press" because of the way they shove in on him and Alfie, who has all hands full trying to keep them both from getting squished.

For what seems like an age, camera flashes go off in his face, Recording Shells are thrust at him, and it's all, yes, he's devastated, Father's death came as a surprise, and, it's such a shock, the entire family is mourning, he can't wait to join them, and, no, he doesn't know what happened yet, but he'll tell everyone as soon as he finds out, and— oh, his favourite ice cream flavour is hot choco-nut sundae, but macadamia is a close second— and, according to the Blacks' ancient traditions, he's supposed to go identify his father's body now, and — why, he supports Puddlemere United. They've got the best Beaters, that's why, and, no, he isn't sure if the World Cup should be hosted outside of Britain this year just because there's a war on.

Then it's all, well, personally, he'd rather not have to leave the country to see England play, and wouldn't it be more motivating to hold at least the final here? And, he would love it if they all went to Blackmore End, he appreciates the support of the wider Wizarding Community at this time, and yes, Father _was_ incredibly important to the Wizarding World and he agrees that people do have the right to know, he'll talk to their security Goblins to allow some reporters to cover the event and kindly speak to his personal assistant, Thrasher, if they're interested in being on the list.

"You absolute slithery, sneaky little Gryffindor," Alphard tells him appreciatively, once they're catching their breath in the lift. He pins the badge — "Sirius Black, Corpse Identification" — on Sirius's robes with something like admiration. "You'd have made a fair Slytherin." Which is about as much of a compliment as he could get from him.

"The Sorting Hat thought something like that too," Sirius comments, wiping at his tearing eyes. Alfie stares at him.

"It _wanted_ to put you in Slytherin?" he asks, shocked. Sirius shakes his head.

"No, in all fairness it agreed with me that Slytherin would be just about the worst House for me. It _did_ say it could stick me in there regardless, if I… you know, insisted hard enough, it said I could do well there."

"Then why did you pick Gryff—"

"I didn't _pick_ Gryffindor, I wanted Ravenclaw," Sirius corrects, shrugging. "Thought it would be less of a slap in their faces."

"It would have made your life easier," Alfie agrees, mystified. "But then what—"

"The Hat said I'd do well in Ravenclaw, but it _wanted_ me in Gryffindor. We argued back and forth for ages, until I gave in because I was about to piss myself."

"Your father thought you picked Gryffindor just to spite him. Why didn't you ever tell him?"

"I can't remember, but he probably didn't ask. Now undo that Conjunctivitus Curse, Alfie, I half can't see," Sirius answers. "Remind me what I'm doing next while you're at it."

.

* * *

.

As Alfie predicted, the Ministry is _packed_. There's a lingering smell of burning flesh, and Sirius recognises it instantly— it's the smell that was all up his nostrils when he got the ring. The Dog in him thinks it smells heavenly, while the rest of him believes it's high time for brunch and regrets not having had breakfast.

"This way, Lord Black," a red-robed witch tells him, offers him a hanky that smells strongly of lavender. It's nauseating, and Sirius shakes his head, already walking to the Atrium, where he can see a crowd milling about.

"The WWN and Prophet are here already. Don't speak to them until you're done," Alfie suggests, nods at Thrasher and a couple of other Goblins to stand by.

The first thing Sirius is supposed to do is find his father, but on his way to the cordoned-off area, where a bunch of little flags have been set up around two bodies covered in sheets, he gets intercepted by Barty Crouch — arguably the one wizard in the world to hate Father as much as Sirius did — who demands he identify the body first.

On the way, Sirius asks for a full report on what happened. He wants to know what really happened, not what the Purebloods want people to think. And… he basically gets the same story Alfie gave him. Father tampered with one piece of evidence too many, sent the wrong Muggleborn to his death. This one had a Curse-Breaker son who was ready to give his life for him. Sirius finds himself wondering how that works.

Alfie's guess was more than educated— and Sirius would like to know how his uncle could get what's evidently inside information before anyone else.

"It's only conjecture at this point, Lord Black," Sam Proudfoot, a middle-aged Auror tells him fairly. "It could be politically motivated, an excuse to get your father out of the way for his ah, rather traditional blood purity views."

 _Traditional?_ Sirius is tempted to snort. _Father was a bloody tyrant, and his blood-purity views were the sort of thing one goes to the lavatory for._ He doesn't correct the Auror, however. Instead he tries to look crushed — a partial accomplishment at best — and nods as sadly as he can manage.

"Will you find out, though?" Sirius asks. "What really happened?"

"Of course."

"Will you identify the body now?" Crouch snaps impatiently. Sirius decides he might as well and follows to the cordoned-off area.

"Which one is it?" he asks, taking care not to step on any of the little flags — or the chunks of still smoking, sizzling flesh — on the floor. Crouch lifts a sheet… and Sirius decides to go down on his knees, so his expression doesn't end up on a photograph.

Father looks quite like a Sunday roast gone terribly wrong. He smells like a Sunday Roast gone incredibly _right_ , though.

Sirius isn't as horrified by the sight as he thought he'd be, which is a little shocking in itself— It's a _disgusting_ sight, certainly, especially because there's about half of him on one side and the other is kind of scattered about, but he's completely disfigured and it's hard to equate towering, imposing Orion Black with what's left of him.

When he remembers that Father was here to plan how to have him killed, though, it becomes quite a bit easier to give less of a care about it. Sirius's eyes rove over the smoking robes, the clawing hands, the familiar wand that rolled to the side, and he suddenly has no trouble confirming what he's seeing and smelling, picking apart the unmistakable whiff of _Father_ that reaches his nostrils with everything else.

"Yes, it's Orion Black, there's no doubt about it," he says, tries to keep the sudden emotion in his voice to a minimum. It's not grief.

It is pure, undiluted _relief_.

Father is _dead_ , there's no doubt about _that_.

This means, no more days in the Library. This means, no more rods or canes or straps, no more Father and his demands, insults, punishments. Sirius stares at the corpse on the marble floor, takes it all in. And he believes it at last:

He is gone.

And there's _one_ person he has to thank for that, lying a few feet away under another sheet. Sirius lets the sheet drop on top of his father's remains, gets to his feet. If nothing else, he'll say thank you properly.

"I want to see the other one." It's surprisingly easy to just demand things and give orders, he notes absently, as he is led to where the other body is lying, lifts the sheet to peek underneath.

The sight here is a bit more shocking than he expected — not because it's gruesome at all — compared to Father, few things could be — but because he is instantly filled with a terrible sort of sadness when he sets eyes on the Muggleborn wizard who unwittingly saved his life.

The wizard is young, dressed in cheap-looking Muggle clothes, but it's his eyes Sirius focuses on. They are open wide, his face contorted in a grimace— not of fear, but of hatred. It's a look Sirius knows full well; he's seen it in the mirror often enough. Franklin can't be older than twenty-one, probably left Hogwarts months before Sirius himself first went to school. Sirius feels terribly sorry for the bloke, and very, very grateful.

He reaches out, closes the dead wizard's eyes, places a Galleon on each. They're the ones he brought for his father, but which, given the state of him, he found no use for. He's never been taught how to pray — Blacks are above such things as religion, if anything they're gods on earth themselves and people should pray to _them_ — but he does mumble out his thanks, and hopes to the Up There that Ernest Franklin, Jr. will find peace now. He adds an apology for his father and the suffering he caused for good measure. It is the only apology he'll make for Orion, and it's soon over.

When he replaces the sheet and gets to his feet again, he notes that the people around have gone quiet and are staring at him in a way that makes him feel a bit self-conscious. The only thing to be heard is the WWN wizard's voice, but even that sounds hushed to his ears. Sirius dusts his robes off, aware that now he must go back to his duty—

But not before Leyland Burrows, one of the WWN reporters allowed here, asks him for an interview with a few unmistakable gestures. The reporters for the Daily Prophet, too, hurry to the edge of the cordoned-off area, while Sirius waves at the Goblins to bring in the bier where they'll take Father to get reassembled in Blackmore End.

"…And here we have Sirius Black, who is kind enough to share a few thoughts with us on his father's passing. The country mourns with you, Lord Black, and we all lament your father's untimely death."

"Thank you," Sirius answers, trying to keep his voice level, though the mere thought of anyone lamenting his father's passing is ridiculous. If anything, people ought to be celebrating the death of that tyrant. "It is a terrible tragedy," he lies through his teeth, "and it is certainly a blow to the House of Black. Father will be…" Gods, but does he _have_ to say it? "… _Missed_."

"There has been talk that this was a political coup as well as a horrible crime, what are your thoughts on the matter?" The microphone is thrust under his nose, and Burrows gives him an expectant look.

"Father was a prominent member of this Ministry," Sirius answers, "and as such, he was fortunate in having made a wealth of allies, but some unfortunate…" or fortunate, for him, "enemies as well. From what I was told by the Aurors, it was a revenge killing. I do not see politics behind it, just…" Sirius pauses again, biting his tongue again before he blurts out a truth and carefully measuring his words. "Just terribly misplaced _justice_."

"Will you support stricter sanctions against Muggleborns in our society?" comes next. Sirius does a double take. _What_?

" _No_ , what does that have to do with anything?" he asks. "It was a _wizard_ who killed him, right? Wizarding Law ought to apply."

"Do you wish to avenge your father's death?" Gods, but this dude is really out for blood. Sirius looks up at him, a bit frustrated.

"You _do_ realise his killer is dead, right?" he replies incredulously. "There's nothing _anyone_ can do about it, is there? Except maybe an enquiry into what really happened," he adds, when an idea forms in his mind. "So we _all_ get our facts straight, instead of making up coups and dragging the war into it. _That's_ something I would actually like to see."

"Do you have a statement regarding the Franklin family?" the reporter presses on.

"I'm sorry for their loss," Sirius answers truthfully. "Now excuse me, I have to deal with mine." He turns away from the reporter, wondering how they could let such a wizard hold the ear of the country at all. He's as biased as his parents, and—

 _Gah_ , he thinks, _I should have hand-picked reporters, too_.

"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen," the reporter exclaims in the background. "The Black's first statement and his first official act. He is perhaps, the first Black heir to not outright demand the harshest of punishments to be bestowed upon Muggleborns and Half-bloods following this crime…"

Sirius tunes the wizard out, takes the sheet off his father's body and covers it with a large silken one that has the Black crest on top, levitates everything onto the bier.

Then he spends a few moments hunting down the rest of "dear Papa".

Of course, Father just _has_ to make it difficult.

He just _had_ to get himself blasted to bits, didn't he, and Sirius wonders if the stack of handkerchief-sized squares of silk they have on hand will be enough for the many pieces lying around.

What if he misses one, he wonders, will Father's ghost be missing bits and bobs too? Will he even _notice_ if some of him ends up mopped up or in the rubbish bin? Sirius earnestly debates if he's willing to find out, as he's picking up his umpteenth bit of toe, or a kneecap, or spleen.

It takes the better part of an hour to find all of him— in the end Sirius breaks protocol and just summons all of the remaining bits of Father into a last silken bag. It wouldn't be fair to give the Bastard an excuse to haunt this place, if he does end up as a ghost. Blackmore End and the attic in Grimmauld Place, those will be his options if he hasn't moved on, and Sirius decides he's alright with it, as he directs the goblins to take everything to the carriage and wipes his hands on a wet towel before giving the Prophet an interview.

It's well into the afternoon when Sirius climbs into the carriage, where Tilly the Elf gives him a quick scouring to get rid of the stink on him. Inside, Thrasher and Alfie are poring over a basin with Distance-Seeing enchantments and spying on the reporters who are still outside the carriage, hoping to get an idea of what they'll write about, but the reporters are just hoping for another statement — anything from his opinion on Celestina Warbeck's latest album, or whether he prefers blondes or brunettes, at this point— and there's a wireless blaring the saddest music ever in the corner.

Sirius rolls up his sleeves, loosens his tie, and tells Tilly to serve a late lunch. He's starving and parched and rather ready for a long soak in his bathtub at Hogwarts. Only, Merlin only knows if he'll get to have that again. Best not think about that.

"How did we do?" he asks Alfie, leaning over to read the stuff on their parchments.

"You're on every single front page today and tomorrow, the press loves you," Alfie replies, impressed. " _Everyone_ is looking at you now, lord. The WWN's ratings look pretty good too. Audience _tripled_ right after you prayed for the dead kid— That was a risky touch, Lord, but clever."

"I meant it. It wasn't for show."

"Then you are a better wizard than I."

"I have a lot to be grateful to him for," Sirius answers. "I want you to assign the family a stipend of a thousand Galleons every month, got it? Word it as an apology, but put it down as part of the life debt I owe the Franklins. Have one of Father's elves look after them as well. You said there's a mother and a sister?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Stop it with the lord. Make arrangements so they won't want for anything, and make sure they're left alone. It's the least I can do."

"I'll arrange it, Lor— Sirius," Alfie corrects with something like satisfaction.

"Good. Leave that then, and let's eat something. You can tell me what's next on the way."

.

* * *

.

The next bit, apparently, involves assembling a 3-D Orion puzzle in Blackmore End, as Alfie informs him a moment later. Until the Accession, he is supposed to stay in the old palace, which Sirius isn't too stoked about; Grimmauld Place he's mapped out and explored to exhaustion, but Blackmore End is half a mystery still, as it's only ever used for funerals and deaths and such… and the Blacks don't die half as fast as Sirius would like. If they did, instead of stubbornly clinging to life like old Elladora, Sirius would know the secret passages of the place loads better.

Blackmore Hill is even worse. He has been there only twice, and even Alfie is little help in that regard.

He busies himself with the body upon arrival, while Alfie goes to announce their return — he spots the younger Blacks outside, engaged in a flying competition of some sort, which Regulus looks to be winning — and bites his lip. Not because he would like to join them, but because he's worried about Reg's future.

 _"_ _Can't I leave Reg in my place?" He'd asked the instant they had taken to the air._

 _Alfie shook his head._

 _"_ _He ticks all their boxes," Sirius pressed on. "Not to mention, he's better at Blacking than I ever will be. It's him they want, not me, you said that already."_

 _"_ _Believe me, they would love it. But our rules are nothing if not clear. The succession can only occur if you…"_

 _"_ _Croak it," Sirius finished for him. "Shit."_

Sadly, he hasn't managed to figure anything out beyond, well, dying, to get out of this fix. Rituals and age-old magical bonds aside, the whole situation seems pretty final.

"Lord," Alphard yanks him from his musings. "They're ready for you."

 _Am I ready for them, though?_ Sirius wonders, plunging his hand into his pocket out of instinct to make sure his wand is still there.

"Come here," Alfie says after regarding him for a moment. "Don't tell anyone where you got these from," he adds, making a show of adjusting his robes just right. Two small spheres, no larger than marbles, are pressed into his hand.

"Um. What are they?" Sirius asks, surprised. He hadn't expected Alfie would help him beyond what they'd talked about all day.

"Dispersal Orbs. They'll take care of most harmful magic for you. Short of Unforgivable Curses, they will turn anything that touches you into something benign, as long as you have them on your person. Don't let _her_ find them," is the answer.

"What do they d— _Oh_." At once, Sirius feels stronger, tingling with magic.

"Exactly." Alfie smiles at him, then reaches for Sirius's wand. "And you don't ever keep your wand in your pocket unless you want them to take it real quick. Put it in here."

There's a hidden pocket in his sleeve, who knew? Sirius nods, but suddenly his heart is going a hundred miles an hour. He _is_ dreading this.

"Occlumency in place?"

"Yeah." Sirius can't manage more than a whisper, though.

"Feed the ring. It only takes what you give it, when you give it, Lord."

"Oh. Right." He focuses, and there it is again, that sensation, like he can take them all on single-handed. Sirius lets out a surprised little laugh, and Alfie places a hand on his shoulder.

"Once more unto the breach, my friend, once more."

"Or close the wall up with our English dead," Sirius replies, and they both chuckle as they step through the tall double doors of the Blacks' House of Death.

.

* * *

.

 _It's not as bad as all that,_ Sirius muses an hour later, when he is directing a bunch of elves to levitate Father's bier down to the largest dungeon, where he's supposed to prepare the body for his state funeral.

Behind him, Alfie and Thrasher lead a handful of Blacks and half-Blacks to follow. Sirius told them all over a very tense High Tea — the first official meeting of the House — that it would be _impossible_ to do it on his own, as the reassembly has to be done without magic and Orion is about three times his size. So, he'd taken advantage of an obscure rule that allowed him to recruit help and picked the queasiest, most whiny family members he could find for the task.

For starters, Sirius chose Narcissa, those little snots Vega and Phineas Pilliwickle who keep picking on Reg, Ophelia Burke, Felix Moon, and just to keep things lively, Tristram Borgin the younger, whom Sirius is still itching to get payback from, for being such a twat during his werewolf test.

"Oh, God— the _smell_ ," Borgin mutters, as they all press scent-infused hankies to their noses and mouths.

" _Yeah_ ," Sirius agrees. "Vomiting on the body is strictly forbidden, because it's a form of treason," he reminds them, trying his damnedest not to laugh. "If you feel queasy and like you'll chuck your guts up, don't hesitate to ask Slinker and Stinker here," he gestures at two rather unhappy-looking elves, "and they'll bring you a puke bucket."

He directs them to start separating innards from outards, while Thrasher sets up the magical gramophone Sirius commandeered from one of the sitting rooms, and Sirius hides his Muggle wireless underneath. A few clever Charms later — a rerun of one of last year's pranks — have them listening to Toccata and Fugue in an endlessly repeating loop, while Sirius's ears are filled with his favourite Muggle rock music.

"All right, everyone, what do you suggest?" he asks cheerfully, while Led Zeppelin blares in the background. "Should we kind of sew the bigger bits together first and then see where the smaller bits should go, or should we go by body parts and _then_ put them all together?"

They all stare at him like he's lost his head. Inwardly, he's cackling.

"No?" he prompts again. "Well, in that case, Cissy, Vega and Ophelia can continue sorting what will go inside his abdominal cavity while Felix and you, Tristram, sort of hold his left and right halves together. I'll sew," he adds cheerfully, getting a large needle and some multicoloured string. "Just remember, don't use magic, or we'll have to start over. I'm sure if everyone gives it their best, we'll have him put together in a blinking."

.

* * *

.

 _Guess what?_ Sirius asks James hours later, watching his kith and kin bend over a bunch of never-filling buckets.

 _Sirius! Where the hell have you been all day?_

 _I've been… a bit busy._

 _Are you alright?_

 _Pretty much. They aren't, though._ Sirius allows James to have a look at the scene, where Tamara Wilkes, Brendon Rosier and his little brother Rob, Bellatrix and Rodolphus are trying valiantly to follow instructions without throwing up.

"No, no, that's a _toe_ —" Sirius tells Rodolphus, who is holding a charred bit and about to try and put it inside Father's ribcage. "Toes don't typically go in the chest."

 _What the hell did you do?_ James asks, amazed.

 _I merely provided the evening's entertainment. Father got himself blasted to bits, and I can't_ possibly _reassemble him on my own, so… I recruited. I've made four of them sick already._

 _You're playing them Muggle music too?_

 _I'm not that suicidal,_ Sirius replies, waving a very green Bellatrix to return to her work and nibbling on a sandwich in a way that makes her look even more sickened. _I'm playing Toccata and Fugue in an endless loop for them,_ he informs.

James's laughter resounding in his head makes him feel loads better. He hasn't been away from Hogwarts for twenty-four hours, and already he's pining for his friend. Mind you, it would be oodles more fun if James were here, by his side. Alone, there's only so much he can do. Oh well, at least he gets to take it out on Bellatrix.

"Make sure you put his arm where it belongs, Trixie Pixie. Don't do the same Rod did and put the right arm where the left one goes, or we'll have to cut it off again and start over."

"Shut up, you," Bellatrix snaps, and Sirius smirks at her.

"I'm just saying," he responds dryly. "You're the one who's going to marry _that_ ," he points at Rod, who is now trying to attach the toe to Orion's leg. "We both know who'll be the brains of the operation."

 _Yeah,_ James chortles. _It's going to be Rod._ Sirius can't bite back a snicker, when Bellatrix looks a little mollified. _Dude, I thought something had happened._

 _Something did,_ Sirius retorts. _Father got himself blasted to bits. All the king's horses and all the king's men, you know._

 _I haven't been able to reach you for ages and ages._

 _Must be something in the house_. By now, the lie rolls off automatically, even smoothly. In truth, he's been blocking James off all day. It's for the best, he's told himself that for years. James doesn't need to know the details of his family life, nobody does. If he could, Sirius wouldn't want to know any of those details, either.

 _You sure you're alright?_ That doesn't mean James doesn't pick up on stuff.

 _Yeah, for now. I'm aiming towards getting_ everyone _to help_ , Sirius tells him. _If they want that bastard buried, they'll have to get him ready for it._ Aloud he adds, "Don't be so whingy, Tamara! It's just a bit of blood— you're _Blacks_ , you're supposed to revel in this kind of stuff. So, stop your noise and get to it."

Amazingly, they obey.

It goes on all night. Sirius's initial enthusiasm dies down after three in the morning, gradually replaced by a sleepy sort of drowsiness.

By the time the only one that's left to help is Reg, Father has been semi-successfully stuffed into the opera robes Sirius saw him in last, and has been washed and assembled as best as possible. Sirius lets a very sleepy Regulus— nobody has been allowed to retire until this is done — cover Father with a shroud and shut the lid of the coffin, ready for next morning's viewings.

"He looks horrible," Reg comments, biting his lip. Sirius gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"He looked worse, little brother."

"Did that horrible Mudblood really do all those things?" comes next. Sirius shrugs, ignoring the use of the term. He hadn't known they were called Muggleborns before James pointed it out, either.

"I think so, but Father did some terrible things to him too. Just remember, don't call them Mudbloods in public."

"Why?"

"It's rude."

"Mother says we should kill them all."

"Mother says a lot of things, don't take her every word to heart. She's just mad."

"Will the Mudbloods kill all of us?" Regulus asks, once more voicing something that is most likely on everyone's lips. "Uncle Cygnus said we have to be careful because they will."

"I don't think they will," Sirius answers confidently. "And if they do, I'll make sure they don't get you."

Which seems to be enough for Regulus…

"I miss Father."

… but then, Regulus has always been odd.

"You'll get over it."

Sirius drops Regulus off in his room and then goes to take a bath, and he is pleased to note that there is hardly a room he passes where there isn't sobbing, continued retching, or sleep-deprived family members trying to shake off the horrible night that was made of it.

He snickers; he hadn't ever thought he'd get one up on the entire clan in one fell swoop. Even Mother had ended up adding to the puke bucket. She was easily the most dramatic of the lot, and never mind what they say about eternal love- she hadn't managed to so much as attach his teeth where they were supposed to go.

It's been exhausting, yes, but nothing short of liberating. Whatever the retaliation for this is, Sirius believes that, at least, it was _entirely_ worth it.

.

* * *

.

 _"_ _His death only bought you time. Now it's up to you to buy yourself time, my lord. You've got a bull's eye on your head, an heir they like better ready and primed to take your place. Tread carefully."_ Alfie's words of advice ring in his mind as he leaves the bath a little later, but right now, it seems so difficult to achieve. He hasn't had any sleep, and it doesn't look like he'll manage to bat an eye before tonight.

Sirius is aware that the only way he can hope to get his family to lay off him is, if they are more exhausted than him. However, they get to rest today, and he needs to figure out a way to keep them too busy, too much on edge to react.

Breakfast comes in the form of a cocktail of potions, courtesy of Alfie: Alertness Ale, Energy Elixir, Wakefulness Tonic, Clarity Concoction, and Merlin knows what all else. Not having batted a lid since Sunday before the Moon, Sirius doesn't even question it and downs the stuff in a few long gulps; the mixture makes him feel like running laps around the grounds, but takes away all his appetite, which is a pity.

Sirius practises Occlumency with his uncle while going over the day's schedule, which is full of high-ranking visitors, and Sirius and Alphard sign off on the reporters who will be staying until the Successio Ritual.

Which is when another, painfully simple idea takes shape in Sirius's mind.

"Give those here," he demands, snatches the lists they have been poring over from his uncle's hands.

"Aren't there too many, Lord?" Alfie asks, when Sirius just ticks off every single reporter, photographer, and wireless journalist on the sheafs of parchment. "You are just allowing _everyone_ who asked to come over and stay."

"Press are like diamonds," Sirius counters, stretching with satisfaction. "You can never have too many."

"But it's overkill," Alfie argues. "We agreed to allow one or two—"

"No, it's not," says Sirius obnoxiously. "It's barely enough. Let them interview whoever they wish, and give them free rein of the place."

"But Lord—"

"Stop it with the lord."

"Apologies. The Dark Artifacts in this house alone—"

Sirius grins.

"I'm _absolutely certain_ that my hundred-odd relations will be _perfectly_ capable of keeping the press from wandering too deep into the darker areas of the palace," he says confidently, and Alfie lets out a startled laugh; he is nothing but quick in the uptake. "That way they'll keep each other busy, and the world can see for itself the best and most glamorous side of the Ancient House of Black."

"And your dear relations won't have time to plot your demise if they're constantly being watched by the gossip squad," Alfie nods his understanding, and suddenly he's adding even more names to the list. "I think there's time to invite the knitting and cheese-charming reporters, and wasn't there this chap who does a column on winged horse racing..."

Not everyone takes the news with Alphard's good humour. When he reaches the breakfast room, Mother corners him at once. The night wasn't good on her; she is still in her bathrobe and slippers, her hair in curlers, but she still galumphs towards him with the grace of a steamroller on steroids.

"You foolish boy, what have you done?!" she snaps.

"Good morning to you too, Mother," Sirius replies nonchalantly.

"The _press_!" she hisses. "In our _house_!"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Mother," Sirius tells her innocently, sitting down to a hopefully not cursed meal amid the muttering and loathing stares of the Blacks around him. "This is the Most Noble and Ancient House of _Black_ , I'm sure there's nothing to be worried about. Just tell the photographers to get your best angle, every time," he advises the scandalised witches and wizards. Over at the end of the table, Ophelia Burke is already patting down her hair, as though that could erase her trollish features. "They're really good about it. And, of course, don't throw dirt on the family. Father was always reminding me about it."

The sour looks all around turn into scowls, which makes Sirius cackle. Inwardly, of course: Outwardly, he's giving them all his most innocently accomplished look ever.

"It's all for _Father_ , isn't it," he adds, as if that should be enough for them to jump on the bandwagon. "I want to make sure he gets a proper sendoff. It should be a blast, shouldn't it, and if you look at it, it's also _your_ chance to shine, representing the family in these dark times. The world will be watching, so make sure they see what you want it to see: the Wizarding World's Finest in their finest hour."

The murmurs that surround him become intrigued. Some of them, especially the older generation Blacks he doesn't usually spend any time around, begin to sound less furious and more confused. Others seem to think he honestly didn't mean anything by it, being the stupid little boy that he is, and a handful even appear to agree that Father's burial should be national news, and what better way to assert their collective status than this?

"Precisely, cousin Effie," Sirius agrees with a spindly witch in a flowery gown. "Asserting our status as a national treasure is important too, I didn't think you'd be against it— this is history in the making." Sirius gives them all his most guileless smile. It doesn't fool his mother, maybe, but even Regulus gives him a sleepy smile and a nod.

"I'll be off," he says a little later, wiping his mouth. "Lots to do. Remember, everyone, give the world your best," he adds to them all, gives them his most encouraging smile. "Inspire. Stir the commoners' imaginations. Be Blacks — shine like the stars you are."

That shuts everyone up, and Sirius has the hardest time not bursting out laughing, as he goes to fetch Father and get his vault ready.

.

* * *

.

The first day of viewings leaves much to be desired.

"There are dark days ahead." Alphard's stare is intense as he checks Sirius's robes over before he welcomes their most important visitors.

"Fitting, for the Blacks," Sirius quips, but Alfie isn't in the mood.

"This is no time for jokes, my Lord. Not with them, at any rate." Privately, Sirius thinks it's never time for jokes with that lot. He wishes he could change that.

Then again, Alfie has been in a rotten mood since he overheard Sirius's early morning statement to the press. He's still cross at him over it, but Sirius can't bring himself to care; he promised not to heap dirt on the family, but he never said anything about keeping them from heaping dirt on themselves, and Father quite literally dug himself a grave.

"Okay, fine," he says aloud. "I'll behave."

And, to his own surprise, he does. They _all_ do, from the tiniest Burkes to Bellatrix and Narcissa and her cronies, everyone is the most picture-perfect, sad member of an elegantly mourning family. Witch Weekly, so he hears, is doing a special edition dedicated to the event that has everyone in a tiz.

There is plenty of stuff to put on the papers; the wide expanse of carefully-manicured lawn between the old palace and the mausoleum is full of pavilions with refreshments; an ongoing garden party for those who aren't in the mood of facing the gloomy atmosphere in Blackmore Hill, the mausoleum for the dead that houses every Black since the founding of the House.

The hill is as dark and daunting as Sirius remembers, with its narrow passages and vaulted ceilings; this hasn't changed in the two years since he was here last. The air is stale and cold and humid, and even the torches that flare up when he walks past fail to bring any real light into the place. It's any Dark Wizard's perfect resting place.

The Black Mausoleum isn't just bare corridors and stone doors, however; someone — Sirius can't imagine who, but he's sure it was a Slytherin — evidently thought this could be a brilliant reading nook, because the entire place is decorated in vintage Black Deco. The walls are lined with shelves and trunks and benches and parlours, even fireplaces that haven't been lit in a thousand years. Some of the shelves hold books — he glimpses _A Guide to Controlling Demons, The Translation of the Voynich Manuscript_ — _Annotated_ , by P.W.C. Black, _Dark Forces and How to Make Them Work For You_ , and many other, disturbingly similar titles.

This, Sirius is aware, is where they keep the more dangerous stuff. Stuff even the likes of his parents don't want to risk keeping at home. Sirius hadn't seen most of the shelves or their contents before, and looking around, he notices the journalists, and even other Blacks, don't give the things a second glance. Maybe there's Befuddlement Charms in place, as well. He wouldn't put it past his loving family; the Blacks have turned wrapping riddles in mysteries into an art form.

The artwork catches his eye; there's cursed paintings here, depicting ancient rituals and sacrifices and equally nasty things— one even shows three kittens playing with a ball of string; another, shows a sunny Victorian seaside resort, with amazingly life-like people trying to get his attention from what looks like a veranda, shouting soundlessly and waving their striped umbrellas and straw hats at him. There are throttling statues, icons, bottles of potions that are covered in cobwebs and look hundreds of years old, even a creepy-looking doll whose button eyes follow him as he walks down the tunnel, all the way to the far end where a new vault has been hewn into the living rock.

Father's vault is completely bare when he first arrives, levitating the shining bier behind him. There is just a raised hewn stone coffin where the body will go, the vaulted ceiling, and some empty brackets for torches.

According to Alfie, he's supposed to decorate the place for the public viewing, and Sirius decides, since he's dead already, Father shouldn't mind it overmuch if he just doesn't add anything at all.

Sirius lights a handful of torches, directs some elves to arrange the flowers, and allows the press a glimpse before anyone else. He even thoughtfully provides them with buckets, because even if Betelgeuse tried to put some make-up on to make Father look a bit more human, now he looks like everyone's worst nightmare.

"Shouldn't this be closed casket?" asks Anthony Oglethorpe a couple of hours later, wiping his mouth with shaking hands after making liberal use of the bucket. Slinker takes the wet towel from him and tosses it in the basket behind him, which is already overflowing. The elves placed extraction charms and scent-masking spells which helps, but the sight of the corpse is enough to make anyone queasy.

"Sorry, no," Sirius shakes his head, grimacing. "There's an ancient rule that insists that everyone who comes here bear witness to the fact that The Black is, in fact, quite dead. Of course, we discourage the presence of small children," he adds thoughtfully. "I mean, we did our best, as a collective, to make him a bit easier on the eyes, mostly because so many people are here to see him and pay their respects."

And it seems like everyone wants to see him, as well. The morning brings in all sorts of personalities, mostly Ministry and Wizengamot, but there are also Quidditch players, socialites, aristocrats and magical artists. It's a never-ending line of people, and it would probably be more fun if Sirius were allowed to leave the stinking and cold vault.

He is supposed to personally greet every single witch or wizard coming to give him their condolences, and it's incredibly exhausting, dull work. Not to mention, it's downright depressing after a few hours — some of his relations spend a while down here, but they get to leave after a handful of minutes and he's supposed to stay all day. Sirius figures it's their revenge for making them help with the corpse, and though he hates every second of it, he sucks it up.

.

* * *

.

"The press loves you, despite your big mouth," Alfie tells Sirius, as he is leaving the bath yet again — he feels like he can't get the stench of carcass off him at all — and Sirius gives up on buttoning his shirt to peer over his uncle's shoulder.

They have commandeered a parlour adjacent to Sirius's bedroom and turned it into their version of a news room; various wireless stations are being monitored by a handful of elves, and Thrasher's job is to intercept every new piece of news before anyone else gets to see it.

"They're singing songs of praise for your position regarding Muggles and Muggleborns — I never thought I'd say it, but you just got the entire wizarding community wrapped around your little finger." Alfie shakes his head, half in disbelief. "It'll make it that much harder for your dear old Mum to do anything about it. I hope your plan provides for their retaliation."

"Er. Sure," Sirius answers, swallowing dryly. He hasn't been able to think of anything all morning, but he can't bring himself to admit it.

The really difficult bit is facing his family: The Blacks are grumpy and sleep-deprived when he joins them for lunch, and more than one bleary glare makes its way towards him— nobody says anything, though, and Sirius was right in thinking they'd all be too exhausted to do much if he made the press stick around, but he is also well aware he didn't make any friends today.

The only highlight to his day is James's voice erupting in his mind the instant he lets his block down.

 _They're calling you the most level-headed Black in creation, Sirius._

 _Proof they're clever and-_

 _Proof they're blind as bats_.

 _Keep that article,_ Sirius advises, snickering. _I'll need it the next time someone calls me an idiot._

 _You_ are _an idiot._ James sounds uncharacteristically gentle. _You are setting the MLE on your dead father, they already want to kill you and you keep needling them._

 _Who cares? He's dead. Besides, I have a plan._

 _Do you._

 _It's a plan so cunning, you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel._

 _Oh,_ man.

 _Ye of little faith_ , Sirius responds. _I'll get this sorted, just you wait._ That he only has a vague notion as to how he'll sort this out, Sirius doesn't say. So far, the oath he bullied from Mother is pretty much his only safeguard; he hopes the rest won't dare to do anything unless she tells them to, and now she can't.

.

* * *

.

Dinner comes with twelve courses and a side of revenge.

By now, Sirius is yearning for his bed and quite ready to bypass the meal altogether — but a new development shatters his plans for a restful night.

"We shall now select the Night Guard," Mother announces as they're all sitting down, and he should have spotted the evil glint in her eye sooner, but he missed it completely. "Tonight, our dear late Orion will be honoured by Bellatrix and Narcissa Black, Aquila Black, Ursus Bonham-Black, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, and, of course, my very own son, Sirius Black."

"What?" Sirius blurts out before he can help himself. "I already spent all day down there, why don't you pick someo—"

"Your dear late father would have wanted it this way," Mother interrupts him in her sweetest voice. "I'm sure you won't mind heading the Night Guard tonight. It's part of your obligations, after all, and you've done so well fulfilling them already. Orion would be ever so proud."

And isn't that the biggest lie that has been told all day. Sirius would know, he's spent over eighteen hours lying to people about how much he misses his dad.

A hundred faces stare at him, their expressions ranging from expectant to downright threatening. Sirius shrugs casually, but inwardly he is dreading having to spend the night surrounded by arguably the meanest of the lot.

Mother scored a point there, and when Sirius excuses himself from the table to go get ready, the dining room is buzzing with lively conversation; the Blacks are in a celebratory mood.

"You'll need this," Thrasher tells him when he gets to his room, undoing his black bowtie with a frustrated yank. "Master Alphard said to take it." Sirius stares at the wakefulness potions the goblin is pointing at and nods. Moments later, he is wearing another set of dark robes, Dispersal Orbs in his sleeve with his wand, and as wired as he felt in the morning.

A flash of dread grips him regardless, when he spots the witches and wizards whom he's supposed to spend the night with.

"Come on, little cousin," Bellatrix croons at him, "don't dawdle."

 _Dawdle?_ He's tempted to run away as fast as he can. Narcissa giggles next to her, and the way the rest join in makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention: Whatever they have planned, it's got nothing to do with guarding a rotting carcass all night.

They march him towards the ancient hill, looking more like an execution squad than anything, and Sirius dearly hopes the Dispersal Orbs work. He can't hope to do much against them when they're surrounding him like this, the air is already crackling with magic— even the Dog in him is ready to run.

Fair fights have never been their thing, what was he _expecting_?

 _"_ _Remember to feed the ring. It only takes what you give it, when you give it."_

It takes a moment's focus— but although his fear is suddenly gone, the sense of impending doom isn't. Sirius mentally runs through a list of spells he could use, tries to get his bearings as they are brought even closer together in the tunnels.

The first spell comes as they're crossing a reading parlour a little ways away from Father's vault. It flares up in tandem with the torches, and Sirius barely has time to dodge it; it rips a hole through his robes.

"Slashing Curse first thing, and you _miss?_ At three feet?" He gives Aquila a mocking smirk. "You're getting better."

"You think you're so clever, aren't you? What with the press and your innocent little baby face," Bellatrix snaps back. Then she laughs. "Oh little cousin, you have _heaps_ to learn about being a Black, and we are here to _educate_ you."

"You couldn't educate a Flobberworm if you were teaching it to eat lettuce," Sirius mocks her in return, but that's where the banter ends: Spells start flying, and moments later Sirius finds out — the Dispersal Orbs _do_ work. There's no way he can dodge everything, and while he does get sent flying a few times, the hexes and curses fail to have the intended effect.

"Mind the face," Narcissa reminds them, as someone— Rabastan, probably — decides to throw a settee at him. Sirius scrambles away from that, retaliates with three Stunners in quick succession, and Ursus goes down, face-first. "We're not supposed to leave any visible marks, you guys!"

"Tell him to stay still, then!" Rodolphus shouts, and Sirius laughs despite himself.

"Stay still yourself," he yells, already tearing off down a side tunnel. The torches light up everywhere he goes, and soon he can see them following him, Bellatrix's laughter echoing off the stone walls.

"There's nowhere for you to run, little cousin!" she cackles, and Sirius inwardly curses. She's right. It's not the first time they've ganged up on him, after all; he is nothing if not aware of what will follow.

That doesn't mean he'll take it lying down.

His Blasting Curse is deflected by a shield, but he follows up with a quick " _Prosterno_!", which is much more effective. The Slamming Hex hits its mark and throws Bellatrix against the rest. Just like ten-pin bowling.

"Get back here, you little _shit_!" Aquila shouts. He doesn't sound so cocky now.

"I think not," Sirius shouts back, but his brain can't come up with anything clever to add; he is too busy scrambling down the tunnels as fast as he can, takes a right turn into another parlour—

" _Decerpo_!" comes an instant before he's yanked backwards and slammed to the ground so hard, his wand flies out of his hand and out of sight.

 _Crap_ , he thinks, but there's no time to summon it back into his hand before, " _CRUCIO_!" reaches his ears. The next instant, his world is taken over by red-hot pain and he's done for.

"Not so mouthy anymore, are you, widdle Sirius?" Bellatrix's grin is wide and a bit crazed when she lifts the curse. Sirius is twitching, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw has locked. Then there are hands all over him, searching his pockets, but find nothing they could use at all. "And now you've even lost your wand. Tsk tsk, that was a silly move, baby cousin."

"What do we do with him now?" Ursus asks at a mutter.

"We take him where he's supposed to be," Narcissa says primly, examining his face and declaring herself satisfied with it. "He's got to guard uncle Orion, doesn't he? I'm not doing that, do you know how long it took me to get the stench out of my hair?"

"Well, let's get to it," Rodolphus prompts, holding his bleeding nose. "I don't want to stay down here any longer."

"Fine, fine, you all go back. We'll take him," Bellatrix mutters impatiently, and then someone grabs the back of his robes and starts dragging him along the stone floor.

" _Ugh_. By Morgana, it stinks," marks their arrival, and a moment later, the stench of death is all around them.

"Still smells better than you," Sirius slurs out, vaguely aware it's just him, Bellatrix and Rabastan now. Not that he could hope to do anything about it; he is still all jerking limbs, everything hurts, and his head is swimming.

Sirius is suddenly propelled into the vault, comes to a halt against the stone coffin in a heap. The torches he brought in this morning flare up, bathing everything in a dancing yellow light.

"Make sure nothing happens to dear uncle Orion," Rabastan adds gleefully, turning away.

"Yeah, yeah…" Sirius mutters, shaking his head to clear it. "You know, if you wanted me to watch him, you could've just asked."

"You're such a Gryffindor, little cousin," Bellatrix tells him, grinning. "Let's see if you feel the same way in the morning."

And then a heavy stone slab starts sliding across the entrance.

Sirius didn't expect this one, at all.

"What— hey! _Stop_!" He scrambles to his feet, but the stone door is sealed so completely, even Bellatrix's laugh is abruptly cut off. "Let me out!" Sirius shouts, now plunged in complete darkness. Banging on the slab is useless, but he does it anyway. "Let me out! _Let me out_!"

"Shut up, boy," says a harsh voice somewhere behind him. Sirius freezes, his yell sticks in his throat. That sounded just like—

He whips around, frantically trying to pierce the darkness, but there's _nothing_. Nothing but the overwhelming smell of death… and a faint bluish glow coming from the stone coffin.

" _Father_?" Sirius asks. It comes an octave higher than he'd have liked, but then, his head is still spinning and the rest of him is already beginning to seize up.

"Shut up, boy!" Yep. It's Father. Sirius wishes himself out of here rather desperately now.

"You shut up," says another voice. This one sounds younger and clearly comes from the far end of the vault, over to the left, where a silvery ghost lights up the darkness. "He's just scared."

 _Oy_.

"I'm not scared— I'm just— just—"

"It's all right," the ghost says. "I had to do this too, when I was alive, and _I_ was scared. Nothing wrong with that."

"That was like a million years ago," says a third voice. It sounds like a little girl. Sirius takes a steadying breath. It's just ghosts, and ghosts he doesn't mind much at all.

"Did your father stink to high heavens too?" he asks, leaning on the coffin for support.

"Shut up, boy." Sirius turns towards Father's voice, which is coming out of the stone coffin. He gasps. The corpse is glowing, shining, he looks like a translucent blue kaleidoscope.

"You're turning into a ghost?" Sirius asks, less scared and more curious now.

"Shut up, boy." When he speaks, the translucent outline moves, but it's all out of shape, like a sculpture made of ice cubes that's constantly falling apart.

"Is this normal?" Sirius asks nobody in particular. Suddenly, the darkness in the chamber is lit up by a handful of silvery ghosts floating in through the walls. There's one who looks a bit like the Bloody Baron, whose plumed hat grazes the ceiling as he floats forward to poke at Orion's silvery outline. A glowing bit of cheek falls off.

"Hacked to bits?" the ghost asks in a lofty drawl. Sirius recognises him from a painting.

"Hacked and blasted and burnt," Sirius informs, and the ghosts around him nod. "You're Cygnus III," he says.

"Yes, and you're Sirius II," is the response. "But you look… odd." Sirius gives a start as a see-through, icy cold hand goes through his chest.

"Well, I'm not dead," Sirius points out, and the ghosts go, " _ooh_."

"What are you doing all alone in a sealed vault then?" asks a witch in an elegant gown, peering down at him.

"My cousins tossed me in here," he confesses grudgingly. "They closed the vault."

"The disgrace," says another ghost, this one is fat and grubby. "Doing this to a child? How old are you? Eight? Seven?"

"I just turned fourteen," Sirius replies with a scowl. The little girl laughs somewhere nearby.

"You're rather small for fourteen, aren't you?" asks Cygnus III, peering down at him.

"I haven't had my growth spurt yet," Sirius shoots back defensively. Honestly, it's not as though it's his fault.

"Oh, leave him alone," the witch — Delphina IV, died in 1872 — tells them all sternly, then smiles at him in a way Sirius finds most unsettling. "You're no shorter than Arcturus was at your age, and _he_ grew to six foot five," she tells him kindly. It's such an impossible notion, that Blacks can be kind, that Sirius has to do a double take. He can't help feeling a little mollified by her words, though.

"What was that racket all about, then?" Phineas Black — not the headmaster one, the other one — wants to know next.

"Just my cousins," Sirius mutters. "They wanted me to watch him on my own."

"I hope you didn't break anything," says Delphina. "I so like my paintings."

"And they better not have broken any of my potions," Cygnus grouses. "Barging in here like they own the place, wrecking everything. I am tempted to give them a talking-to."

"Talking-to? _I'm_ tempted to go and yank them from their beds and toss them into the moat," Phineas corrects. "They smashed my favourite reading chair."

"I'd like to see that," Sirius comments, still amazed that they aren't yelling or scowling at him. "But I don't know if they broke anything else."

"Well, boy, go and check."

"The vault's sealed off." And is it him, or is the air getting rather thick? Can he even cast an extraction charm, or an air-freshening spell without his wand? He tries, but all he manages are some sparks from his fingers.

"Magic-resistant," the little girl's voice informs. It's the one ghost he's yet to see, and when he turns, he spots a very familiar-looking boy standing next to him. Sirius looks at his namesake, who fixes him with a bright smile. "So we don't get turned into Inferi or anything."

"Makes sense," Sirius comments, but he can't help feeling crestfallen. "They forgot to add in any vents, though."

"You can still get out," Cygnus III tells him haughtily. "I designed this place against accidentally trapping any of my descendants, after…" he nods his head towards yet another ghost, "my younger brother died in here while keeping vigil." Arcturus V scowls.

"I barely had time to try on the ring," he mutters, gives Sirius's right hand a longing look. "I would have made a great leader of the House. Instead, Phineas Nigellus got the job."

"Will you all _shut up_?" Orion's voice makes Sirius flinch involuntarily. He had forgotten all about Father, his present predicament, and the increasingly noticeable lack of air, but it all comes back to him now.

" _You_ shut up, boy," Arcturus VII, Sirius's grandfather, snaps. "And leave him alone. He is but a child."

 _Oy!_

"He's a _disgrace_ ," Father mutters, and now Sirius finds himself backing away, dreading the wrath of generations of Black ghosts. Suddenly he realises why they locked him up here. "He's nothing but a little Muggle-loving fool."

"He's no such thing!" Delphina snaps, and suddenly she's whacking into the stone coffin with a see-through umbrella. Translucent bits fly out of it, and Father's voice turns into a bit of a ghostly moan.

"Why, he is the spitting image of the Founder of our House," she adds huffily, now floating around Sirius and Sirius and giving them both a reassuring smile. "Orion was always a little obsessed," she tells Sirius. "He wanted everything just _so_ , it had to be perfect — but sadly my great-grandson seems to have forgotten that all Blacks are _born_ perfect, it's the parents' job to keep them that way."

"Besides, only a true disgrace gets himself killed like you did," Arcturus VII mutters, glaring at the contents of the coffin, but all the answer he gets is another moan. Sirius can't help but recognise the tone, the unforgiving stare and the threat in his grandfather's voice; they are the same that he's grown up hearing, and he suddenly wishes he could just leave this place. "We might enjoy the Dark Arts, but we never broke the laws just to get a petty point across. Not where anyone would notice, at any rate," he adds conspiratorially to Sirius, who gives him a wide-eyed stare. "This one is a fine lad, Orion— a genius, no less."

" _Huuuuh_?" moans Orion.

"Say what, now?" Sirius blurts out before he can help himself, but it goes ignored. Arcturus is on a bit of a diatribe.

"By bringing the press over, demanding an enquiry into _your_ shady doings, he is saving the rest of the Blacks from scrutiny—"

"I am?" Sirius asks. He hadn't thought that far ahead. All he wanted was to keep everyone busy…

"Why, of course, little lord." Arcturus gives him a satisfied look. "You might have thought it was just yourself you were helping, but this branches out so well. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will, of course, find the evidence your idiot father neglected to conceal. He left everything right in his office and it will be found, no matter what anyone does, there's no chance of destroying it on such short notice."

Father lets out a moan that sounds more like a string of curses than anything else. Arcturus gives the stone coffin a dirty look.

"Orion was so cocksure he didn't even bother to mask his doings, and more will come to light than just this mistrial. By keeping the Ministry focused on those enquiries, you have bought the rest of the family time to hide their own skeletons. By bringing the press, you are showing there's nothing to hide, _here_ , where everything is hidden in plain sight. And I saw what those reporters said about you, they adore you. Genius, I tell you. The House should be thanking you, not trying to curse you."

"Of course," Sirius replies tonelessly, heart hammering. The air feels a bit like trying to breathe through soup.

"You see, Orion, your son can set this House to rights, he can steer it away from the path towards becoming just another drab and ordinary magical bloodline. Under your nearsighted leadership, it has come undone, become a nest of ignominy and filth, not the noble beacon of the Magical Arts we fostered and sought to uphold. We _have been watching_."

The sound coming from the coffin is an unmistakable squeak.

They have been _watching_? And how much have they seen? Sirius holds his breath. How much have they said? How much will they say?

Oh… _Gods_.

He's starting to think like a Slytherin.

Sirius suddenly needs to sit down; his legs feel like they're made of rubber, and he feels shivery and weak. He slides down the wall he'd backed up against, realises he's running out of air.

"Are you feeling okay?" asks Delphina, peering in on him. Sirius shakes his head dizzily.

"Can't… breathe," he mumbles.

"Oh, you poor dear," is the answer. Delphina cocks her head to the side, revealing a long gash on her throat. "Don't worry, it'll be over soon, and then you won't _need_ to breathe anymore. You'll feel much better," she assures him encouragingly, then glides over to where Arcturus is still telling Father off.

"They're all a bit," Sirius I taps the side of his head, crouching next to him. "But they're mostly kind, and they like you, lord Black."

"How can you tell?" Sirius asks, trying not to gasp with every breath.

"They didn't strangle you with your own robes, did they? They did that to one of the Polluxes, but he _was_ a bit iffy. Come, lord Black. I shall show you the opening."

Sirius dizzily follows his namesake to the left of the sealed slab — the ghost Sirius carelessly kicks the shimmering ghostly bits of his father out of the way as he goes— and wonders how it is that the dead are actually nicer than their living counterparts. All his life, he's been nothing but intimidated by his overbearing family, where kindness of any sort is frowned upon. How can they be nicer in death than in life?

Sirius the ghost shows Sirius how to pry out one of the stones to reveal a hidden lever deep in the wall, and it hisses open. Stale, cold, humid and _delicious_ air rushes in, and instantly, he feels better.

Delphina gives him a bit of a disappointed look as the torches flicker to life.

"We'll try again later," she promises, gliding past him into the suddenly crowded corridor, and Sirius can see that this mausoleum of the dead has come alive; ghosts are everywhere, chatting amongst themselves, perusing the shelves, _taking out_ the many artifacts and books, looking at the cursed paintings…

 _Whoa_. is all that his brain provides for several long moments. He blames it on the lack of oxygen.

"Come, lord Black," says Sirius the ghost cheerfully, "I shall be your guide tonight."

"So you all… uh, you're not alive, but…" Gods, he's so confused.

"We dwell here whenever we feel like it, but we always come for a Succession," Sirius tells him, floating down a corridor that lights up as he walks along with him. "Most of us haunt different places, but we all like Blackmore End best. There's ever so much entertainment here."

And suddenly Sirius realises why all those things are stacked here. It's not just dangerous dark stuff that needs to be kept out of the way— it's for the dead to use and keep busy with.

"Don't you move on?" he asks, following the ghost Sirius down a tunnel that leads to a corridor.

"Some of us cannae, not while Blackmore Hill stands. Others come back only for the Succession, like your lord grandfather. He has moved on, but we are honour-bound to aid the heir to the House in any way we can. And a death, a birth, those always call us back."

"And you?"

"I come and go," is the blithe answer. "I do what I want, when I want, and _no-one can stop me_."

Sirius decides he likes Sirius.

The rest of the night doesn't maybe fly by, but it is definitely made more bearable by the company. The ghosts of his many ancestors are friendly and eager to share all sorts of stories; it helps him ignore the Cruciatus cramps and the bitter predawn cold, which turns the whole network of tunnels into a freezer and eats up his Heating Charms as though the place itself is starved for life.

Sirius the ghost gives him a tour of the tunnels and vaults in the mausoleum, all the way to the more ancient bits, which seem to be held up by sheer magic, and shows him some of the rarer magical items kept in the hill; he keeps _Excalibur_ and _Clarent_ in his toy box, and the legendary swords aren't even the wickedest things in here.

Delphina seems to have gotten over Sirius's decision to continue breathing for the time being and decides to tell him about her love for Black Dog Castle, her childhood home and favourite haunt, and grandfather Arcturus — who seems to have finished telling Father off — even advises him on how to get revenge on his "plotting, treasonous cousins".

"You are The Black now, lad," he tells him. "Show them they will not get away with this sort of behaviour. They must respect you or fear you. Preferably both, but if you have to pick, choose fear."

That sounds good in theory, but. Has he even seen the _size_ of them?

"There's just too many of them, sir," Sirius replies, stifling a yawn as he lights a fireplace in the parlour he and his cousins trashed earlier. "I can't ever get a hit in if they're all together."

"Maybe it's better if you don't face all of them at once, then," says Arcturus. "You'd have to be a very good duellist to take them all on, and your clodpole of a father definitely _neglected_ that part of your education. But you don't need to be a better duellist to get even," he adds conspiratorially, a mischievous glint in his silver eyes. "Just pick them off one by one," he says, as though it is obvious. "When they least expect it."

"I'll do that," Sirius promises, smiling a little. It's mind-blowing; these are the only decent Blacks he's met, and they are all _dead_.

The best bit, though, is the map.

As a reward for fixing his favourite reading chair, Phineas shows Sirius a magical map of Blackmore End, and instantly, he is in love. Whenever he squints at a section, it enlarges and shows him what's going on in there, as though he is standing there himself. It is a _masterpiece_.

"I built the palace around the ancient country house," Phineas explains proudly, while an awe-struck Sirius looks over the parchment, already searching for hidden passages, and Cygnus II, III and IV argue with Phineas whenever he gets something wrong— they expanded the palace themselves, and added a network of tunnels that, "lies forgotten, because there are so few Blacks interested in exploration. After one of them decided to keep them secret, the rest just _forgot_!"

"Preposterous!" Phineas agrees vehemently.

That exploring any Black house is often hazardous to the extreme, Sirius doesn't bother pointing out. Instead, his eyes fix on two very familiar figures walking down a corridor.

Bellatrix is, apparently, having a late-night snifter with Mother in the drawing room.

"Is there any way I can hear what they're saying?" he asks Phineas, who stops short mid-argument with Cygnus II ("I built a perfect master bathroom, and you just _had_ to go and cover it with those ugly snake tiles"), and smiles widely at him.

"Why, yes, there is indeed!" he exclaims proudly. "Focus on the room, and think, "I want to be a fly on that wall". Then you'll hear everything they're saying."

Sirius does, and it's a very strange sensation — like plunging into icy jelly. Suddenly he's not a foot away from them.

"… a better way to get rid of him?" Bellatrix sounds pouty. "He broke Rodolphus's nose, stunned Ursus, and threw me against the others. I applaud the idea of keeping him from sleeping, but there must be a safer way to get it done. Narcissa doesn't want to help anymore, and Rodolphus is _so_ angry," she complains.

Mother nods heavily at her, then shrugs her shoulders and draws her shawl tighter around herself.

"It was the only thing I could think of," she admits miserably.

"There are so many _fun_ things we could do instead," Bellatrix suggests eagerly. "There is so much that can be done, oh Auntie, I am just _bursting_ with ideas—"

"I cannot do anything, the little fool made me swear an oath," Mother sniffles.

"What kind of oath?"

"An Unbreakable Vow. Not to harm him or my darling Regulus, by hand, word, or wand. As if I ever would." Mother's expression is sour. "I cannot break it, for fear of tearing my soul apart, of losing my sanity." She makes even that sound overdramatic, but it still makes Sirius's blood run cold. "However, he is still too young to govern himself. He must be educated according to his station, disciplined, before he turns out worse than your Mudblood-loving sister."

Bellatrix is smirking.

"Well, _I_ haven't sworn any oaths," she says petulantly, "and before the Accession, there is no risk in educating him a little further, is there? Dear Auntie, you won't have to do anything, anything at all," she declares grandiosely. "I swear, by my blood as Black, that I shall help you educate, discipline, or better yet, dispose of Sirius Black, the worthless heir."

"Could you do that?" Mother asks, with undisguised hope.

"Give me your hands, and I shall swear it, to you."

"Well, if it's an accident," Mother muses, "I wouldn't have anything to do with it."

"We both know how reckless he is, always in trouble, always trying daring stunts. Did I tell you? He jumps off the Astronomy tower every morning, at school. Nobody would be surprised if something went wrong."

"Give me your oath then, Bellatrix Black. And may Circe hold you to it."

Their hands suddenly lock, magic fills the air, creating a bond of chains around them both. Sirius watches, aghast, as Bellatrix promises to be Mother's hands and words and all sorts of things besides, and that she will kill him and make it look like an accident, something that won't possibly be traced back to the Blacks, much less to Mother…

The golden chains of magic begin to move faster, begin to glow—

And then Mother starts to scream.

Sirius drops the map with a gasp, stares at it in horror. Around him, the ghosts are watching, smirking at him.

"Well?" Arcturus prompts.

"They're going to kill me," Sirius replies blankly. "I thought I'd gone around that."

Raucous laughter meets his words.

"They'll _always_ want to kill you, boy," Cygnus VI corrects, his head in his hands. "It's basically in the job description." Assenting mutters fill the room, and only now Sirius realises how many of them died violent deaths... at the hands of other Blacks.

"The real question is," Arcturus rumbles, "what will _you_ do about it?"

.

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TBC, soon. In the meantime, remember to drop us a line or two and share your thoughts about this. Any feedback is very much appreciated, it really, really helps!

 **Up next:** Lots going on: Sirius does stuff, Bellatrix does stuff, James does stuff, and it's all generally… stuffy. Until it gets impossibly worse. Regulus lands himself in trouble, nobody is getting much sleep if any, and Walburga's sweater begins to unravel like nobody's business. Also, Orion is finally buried, in a sense.


	5. Act Two: Sepultura PtII

**Disclaimer:** Not recommended for children under 12. Some of the trademarks mentioned in this product appear for identification purposes only. Freshest if eaten before date on carton.

A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed this insane fic! Your words make my day every time, and are incredibly appreciated! I hope this makes yours.

* * *

 **In this Chapter:** Bellatrix makes true on her promise. Sirius realises his problems are a bit larger than he thought. BLACK WARNINGS all over the place. Orion isn't as dead as we thought, Sirius gets into the world's most dangerous prank war, but at least he gets a laugh out of it, Regulus gets in trouble, Walburga starts losing her marbles, and, Voldemort! Also, James! And Peter! I never thought I'd be glad to see his chubby face. And the Succession might not occur at all.

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 **Act One: Sepultura Pt. II Burying Orion**

* * *

"This is bad," Alfie says grimly early on Thursday morning, when Sirius collapses into his bed, so worn-out he's shaking, his body a dull, constant throbbing lump.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Sirius asks his uncle at a mumble, but he doesn't hear the answer; he's asleep a second later. It doesn't last — next he knows, he is groaning his protests as Alfie sits him up and makes him swallow an inordinate amount of potions. The first one tastes like troll piss. The rest aren't any better.

"You look dead on your feet," Alfie informs him, unnecessarily; it's only the second day of viewings, but Sirius is barely keeping himself together — Not having slept since the Moon, Sirius hasn't slept in three days now. He feels the part, too. "I remember sitting down to read, and I woke up mere moments ago. What happened?"

Sirius tells him, even as the potions begin coursing through his system, and he feels more wakeful by the time he reaches the bit about being locked up in the vault.

"That's their plan, then." Alfie looks very worried. "It's so simple. Clever, actually."

"What do you mean?" Apparently he's not awake enough for this. Alfie fixes him with a concerned look.

"They'll just not let you sleep, Sirius," he confirms what he overheard Bellatrix and his mother talk about earlier. "How long have you gone without already? How long do you think you can go with not a moment's rest?"

"However long your potions let me," Sirius answers lightly, but the familiar sensation of dread is back. Alfie looks dubiously at him, and then he decides it's for the best if he gives breakfast with the family a pass and just takes as much of a break as he can.

"This is such rubbish," he grumbles. With the potions pumping him full of energy, though, Sirius feels very restless. Grandfather Arcturus's words come back to him.

 _The real question is, what will you do about it?_

Five minutes later, a large black dog is trotting down the halls. He advances noiselessly, hiding in the shadows — and there are many shadows in any house owned by the Blacks — and slinks around the enormous place, testing wards, sniffing out who sleeps where. The map, which he has transfigured into a Black crest pin, yields some _very_ useful information. Sirius doesn't waste a second's time — he puts it to use at once.

It's not hard to think of what to do to retaliate; he has fantasised about the overdue payback for a long time: a handful of doxies in Narcissa's mattress, biting toilet seats in every other lavatory, regurgitating toilets in the rest, that's stuff he does all the time in school — but never, _ever_ , around his family. He hasn't dared pull an actual prank on the Blacks since his Sorting. The blowback was just too high, and even he picked his battles.

 _Now_ , however…

The potions do their thing, the ring of the Blacks does its thing, and Sirius stops giving a flying fig about his family's retaliation… and everything else too, while he's at it.

He snickers to himself as he lets loose a jar of cursed Tse-Tse flies (you can find anything here if you know where to look) in a handful of bedrooms, charms robes to dress — or undress — the owners at random, fills his stuffy family's clean laundry with itching powder. An hour later, Sirius checks his watch. It's not even time for breakfast yet, so he pays special attention to the corridors, which he charms to detect his more unsavoury family members and to blow up in clouds of flour, coal dust, or — in the case of the Lestranges' rooms — fire, whenever they walk past.

Bellatrix's bed, and Mother's, those deserve a special treatment and are entirely worth the wait for them to go to the breakfast parlour — when they fall asleep next time, they'll be in for a surprise.

The dining rooms and parlours are harder to rig, but not even they escape a cursory treatment of things that, to Sirius, are re-runs of old pranks and therefore come automatically. Since the Blacks will all have to shower and change, he makes a point of stopping by as many rooms as he can and charming their underclothes to give them wedgies in timed increments.

If _he_ can't get a moment's rest— well, then he'll make sure they won't, either.

He is in high spirits as he lopes down the rigged corridors, hands in his pockets as he joins the oblivious Blacks, and it is so _easy_ to lead them on, to give the disgruntled, morose witches and wizards who look more sleep-deprived than he is, would-be earnest smiles and lie through his teeth.

 _I wasn't wrong,_ he thinks wryly, _they look awful when they haven't had their 16-hour beauty rest_.

"The press must go," Ophelia Burke-Black complains, as he is settling down cheerfully to his full English — sans curses today — and buttering his toast just the way he likes it. Assenting mutters and nods sweep around the table. Mother gives him a puffy-eyed glare that is only half awake.

"Why?" Sirius asks them, cutting up his breakfast sausage with relish. "It's just day two— there's still so much more to cover, isn't there?"

"They are nosy," grumbles Cygnus.

"They're reporters, it's in the job description," Sirius answers lightly.

"They keep asking impertinent questions. One of them asked me my age!" Elladora (the younger, who is about 85 or so) huffs.

"They want to take pictures of the house and its artifact collection— who told them we had a strangling rug?"

"Not me!" Narcissa yelps. Sirius is pretty sure it was her.

"This is a sad occasion," mutters Aquarius Black, one of the older, more obscure uncles or great-uncles he'd only glimpsed once or twice. "Why should the press disrupt our mourning?"

"Those commoners give us all a bad name."

"They _are_ a terrible bother."

"Come now," Sirius stops the rising wave of complaints and mutters around him with a crooked smile. "Let's not bicker and argue over who said what. So the press are a bit _overenthusiastic_ ," he agrees with the long table of Blacks in various states of disarray. "Rise to the challenge! You know what I see when I look at you?"

 _Aside from the darkest bunch of vultures ever to circle a carcass?_ A little voice in his head pipes up, and Sirius grins all the wider.

"…No?" one of the Polluxes ventures.

"I see _diamonds_ ," Sirius tells them, so brightly some of their faces start lighting up.

 _"_ _Really_?" asks Narcissa, her eyes wide, and with reason — he's never had anything nice to say to them before. Around him, whispers break out, the odd, "Awww," reaches his ears, copacetic nods are sent his way.

"Really," Sirius assures her, inwardly cackling. "A diamond is, after all, a lump of coal that did well under pressure, and that's _exactly_ what you are!" He takes a second to drink in the confused looks around him. One or two look affronted, but most seem to be incapable of getting the obvious inference.

"Um, thanks," says another of the Polluxes.

 _Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups_ , he thinks, surveying them with satisfaction.

"As you all know," he ploughs on, before they can put two and two together, "Our noble traditions demand no magic be cast on any of our dead— something about not turning them into Inferi, very interesting if you look into the history of it — but Father is getting _rank._ This means, we'll have to shorten viewing time per visitor, and I'll have to ask you to escort our _many_ important guests inside, and entertain them as they come out. They'll be feeling queasy, so take that into account, and kindly make sure there are always two of you at the Hill's entrance every time people come into the vaults."

"What?"

"Just because this is a sad occasion, we don't need to make others even _more_ miserable, do we?" he asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "You are Blacks, you're _better_ than anyone else out there, right?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"So, here's today's roster…" He tosses up a scroll, which multiplies as it hits the air, so each one of his hundred-odd relatives gets a copy. It is a list of names and how often they'll have to go into the stinking vault.

"But— why do I have to go in five times every _hour_?" Bellatrix asks, outraged.

"Because we all know how bright you shine," Sirius replies, his tone businesslike as he peruses the scroll. "And since we'll have over eight hundred visitors this morning alone, our best must step forward. Or are you implying you're not up to the task and I should pick Castor and Pollux over there?" He gestures at the Rosier twins, who are digging in their noses, completely oblivious to the matter at hand.

"I never said that!" Bellatrix snaps. Her dark eyes are piercing, downright threatening — he ignores it, but it doesn't come easy. "But it's _stupid_ to have us all going in there one by one—"

Sirius clicks his tongue condescendingly.

"But this is the Black way," he argues. "You are stars, and it's inadvisable to put more than one of you up at the same time, because each star is their own firmament. That's what you are, or will you tell me I'm wrong?"

Grumbling greets his words, but nobody openly contradicts him.

"Excellent," he says, hopping off the chair he's been standing on. "Remember, keep the press occupied and away from the Strangling Rug, Uncle Cygnus and Mother can be in charge of hiding the more obvious things, perhaps in your chambers, just for a day or two…" He'll have to make a point of ensuring at least some of the artifacts are found, "and make sure our guests are made to feel at _home_. You want the Black family to get the Wizarding Family of the Year Award?" he asks, makes them all look up at him again, but now his relatives look interested.

"That doesn't even exist!" Delphina sounds unsure. Sirius smiles encouragingly at them; of course there's no such thing, he's just made that up. It is a lie, exactly like the fortnight at Alfie's he was _never_ rewarded with when he was little and they wanted him to do what they wanted.

"I have it on good authority that they're instituting it this year," he tells her with utter certainty. It's the proverbial carrot dangling in front of the ass, and it _works_.

 _Take that, Mother. That's for lying to me for years._

"Remember, you're in the spotlight. Act like diamonds. And on this note, the press are here."

"But we aren't ready yet!" exclaims Mother, her hair still in curlers. She looks like she had about as much rest as he did, her skin a rather sickly shade of yellow.

"Worry not, I'll hold them off for a few minutes. Now chop chop, people — unless of course, you'd rather _I_ deal with the press all day while you stand guard with Father."

Groans and complaints are kept to a minimum, as most of his relations are now hurrying around to look their best for the day of viewings, trying their damnedest to be polite to the hundred or so enthusiastic reporters asking them questions and snapping pictures, and he hears more than one of them call dibs on the washrooms and showers.

Watching them, Sirius decides to lace the soup with something that will make them grow boils this evening. Lark's vomit, that's just the thing he needs. Or Acromantula bristles, or better yet, something to give them the runs. Or constipate them. Or both — give them the runs and then constipate them as they reach the lavatory…

Ah, decisions, decisions.

He doesn't escape the overexcited reporters, either; they crowd around him as he steps out of the parlour, a bunch of flashes go off in his face a second later. He welcomes them as though they're his best friends, gets a warm greeting in return. Father would be proud. There won't be a single speck of dirt thrown on the family name from _his_ end.

"Have you had any news about your father's murder?"

"None yet," Sirius tells them, "But I have asked the Aurors to carry out an in-depth enquiry. _Whatever_ happened, I am certain they will get to the bottom of the matter soon."

"Can this backfire on your father? It is said he unjustly sent an innocent wizard to his death."

"We'll see, won't we?" Sirius replies lightly. "I'm sure Father would _never_ do such a thing," he adds, sounding sincere and innocently convinced. "The mere thought is preposterous, isn't it Mother? Here, _she_ will gladly tell you everything you need to know about Father. Do ask how they met and things, to round your story off... Just catch her best angle when you put up a picture, there's a good chap."

But the press want to know other things; he is asked about his opinion on werewolves, and whether or not a registry should be created — of course, he's adamantly against it — and he takes the chance to throw some dirt on the Ministry's Disposal of Dangerous Creatures Squad.

"It was rather horrible," he tells the enthralled reporters when he finishes his story. "Maybe we should focus on that. I mean, if I were one, I wouldn't go in that cage if they paid me."

"Are you suing the Ministry for what they did?"

"Now that you mention it," Sirius replies, a smirk making its way out after all, "I probably should."

Thrasher comes to him a little later, as he is discussing Puddlemere United's odds against the Holyhead Harpies in Sunday's game.

"Lord Black! Lord Black! Something — it's not right."

"Excuse me a sec," Sirius says, "You can interview my brother, Regulus. He's got interesting ideas about Quidditch odds this season. He's a Kestrels fan." The reporters turn towards his baby brother, and he holds one of them back — junior Prophet correspondent Janus Jensen looks surprised as Sirius confides, off the record, that he'll find _interesting_ artifacts in the third floor, second door to the right past the statue of Phineas Nigellus.

The grateful reporter promises not to tell a soul. Sirius believes him, seeing the heavy competition to get _the_ story out, but he is aware that the bloke will have to get help to get past old Cygnus and Mother, which is bound to cause a scene. Leaving his half-ready relatives to deal with the extra fifty or so witches and wizards asking questions and as many photographers, he follows the small goblin to Alfie's chambers, suddenly anxious.

His uncle is moaning in his bed, fully dressed.

"What happened to you?" Sirius asks, peering in on him. "Do we have to call a Healer?"

"It's my back, it _hurts_ ," Alfie groans. "I must've pinched a nerve getting my overcoat on."

Sirius raises his eyebrows. Trust Alfie to get himself jinxed out of commission. Sure, it _looks_ like sciatica, but the corner of Sirius's mind that is still fully functional doubts it's just because he sort of turned wrong while getting dressed. Sirius stares at him, blinking slowly. His tired brain needs some time to process that whatever is wrong, it's _bad_ , but he finds it hard to freak out for his uncle. He decides to give him the contents of the vials he's supposed to chug.

"You need this more," he says, hands him the last bottle of troll piss drink they have. "I can hold off a bit longer, and you need to be well enough to make more. I'll send for a Healer."

"No need," Alfie answers, downing the vile concoction. "You get some rest, I'll reverse this before you know it. Go on, visitors come in at ten, starting with Minister Jenkins. I'll wake you up."

Sirius doesn't need telling twice.

.

* * *

.

The highlight of his morning is, as always, talking to James. Unblocking his mind comes harder every time — it's easier and safer to just barricade himself behind walls and mazes of nothing at this point — and, as he gets ready to lie down, he lowers his block.

 _Sirius!_ James erupts in his mind an instant later.

 _James!_ He exclaims in the same tone.

 _Are you okay?_

 _From the neck down, yeah,_ Sirius replies, shimmying under his covers. He gives James a heavily-edited version of events, focusing on the ghosts rather than what made him end up surrounded by them.

 _Are they giving you a hard time?_ James wants to know. Sirius mentally shrugs.

 _It's business as usual here. I'm giving_ them _a hard time,_ he answers. _But I'm running out of ideas. I've done the lavatories, some of their rooms. Hid a bunch of live Billywigs in the walls…_

 _You're_ pranking _them?_

 _They keep pranking me! I have to keep them busy somehow. The press has them entertained, but you know them. They'll find a way around them, and the reporters go home at night._ Sirius sighs, already blending in with his pillows. He groans with relief, wishing he could just stay in bed all day. _You know,_ he adds sleepily, _some people just need a high five. In the face. With, like, a chair…_

 _Yeah, I've been reading the papers. Especially the articles that say you have been asking for the Aurors to_ investigate _your father._

 _Oh yes, that was a nice touch._

 _Your family will retaliate, you do realise that?_

 _You sound like Alfie_ , Sirius grouses sleepily.

 _I'm sorry I offended you with my common sense._

 _I know they'll retaliate._

 _At least we agree on something._ There is a pause, during which Sirius slips into a very satisfactory daze. James, though, is wide awake on the other end. _What will you do about it? What's the plan?_

 _I don't know,_ Sirius admits.

 _You don't_ know _? You said you had a plan so cunning—_

 _I never thought it would work out this far._

 _Sirius!_ James sounds scandalised.

 _I'll think of something,_ he decides. _I got myself into this, and I'll… get myself even deeper into this._

 _So what do you want to do?_

 _I've always wanted to burn the place down,_ Sirius gives a hearty yawn, closes his eyes at last.

 _I've always wanted to topple all the shelves in the Library like dominoes,_ James argues. _Doesn't mean it's a good idea. You need to be careful. Your uncle said they want to kill you—_

 _They wouldn't be family if they didn't try to kill me at least once_ , Sirius replies offhandedly. _Careful gets you killed in here,_ he adds. _I'm going all in. I'm done being careful._

 _You think you've been_ careful _so far?_ James asks, disbelievingly.

Sirius chuckles tiredly, _You have no idea, James._

 _Really, mate you've got to_ —

Sirius doesn't hear what James says next. The last thing he does as he's falling into torpor, is let his block go back up. It's an automatic reaction by now.

.

* * *

.

"There's something to be said about Muggles," Bellatrix tells him. She is sitting primly on an overturned barrel, somewhere deep underground. Sirius shivers; it's freezing here, and where did his clothes go? The smell of rotten eggs and something acrid fills his nostrils.

He squints in the darkness, vaguely remembers getting undressed and under his covers for a nap before the morning rounds. What happened after, he has no clue. Sirius wonders whether to ask her, as he breathes shallowly to keep from gagging at the stench of death all around them. Bellatrix just regards him with a sneer.

"They might be filth and only fit enough to be wiped out from the world, but they _are_ creative. Look, little Sirius. This is called a _plastic bag_."

"I _know_ what a plastic bag is, you stupid hag," he mutters. It's the wrong thing to say, really, but he can't help himself. Gods, it's so cold…

"Aren't you the clever one," Bellatrix tells him. "I have found a novel use for it. You see," suddenly she is bearing down on him, bag in hand, smirk in place. "We put it over your head, like so, and tie a knot around your neck, like this. And then _fun_ things happen," she tells him, and suddenly he's staring at her _through_ the bag.

Panic rises from deep in his belly, and he tugs and tears at the thing, but it's holding fast, fogging up with every exhale, pressing against his face and eyes whenever he tries to draw breath. Then it clicks.

There's no _air_.

Sirius collapses onto the hard, wet flagstone floor of the dungeon, tearing desperately at the bag, Bellatrix's childish giggle ringing in his ears. Usually, that sound annoys the hell out of him. Right now, though, it's frightening — He's suffocating, he's _dying._

All she does is laugh harder.

He can't _breathe_ , can't call for help… He can't even see her past the fogged-up plastic, which is now clinging wetly to his face— he finds it's the only plus in his desperate situation.

Sirius wakes up screaming, tearing at his throat. He falls off the bed, thrashing and clawing to remove a plastic bag that—

Isn't there.

"Master! Master! What's wrong?" The raspy voice belongs to Thrasher, who is bending over him with worry. Sirius stares at him, gulping in as much air as he can.

"Bad… bad dream," he bites out, still gasping, shaking with shock and adrenaline. When he looks at the clock, it hasn't been a half hour since he went to lie down.

"What happened?" Alfie hurries over from the adjoining bed chamber, and Sirius shakes his head to try and clear it.

"Nothing," he mutters, rubbing his eyes rather more forcefully than is advisable. Sleep is out of the question, so he decides to take another bath instead. The smell of rotten eggs and farts is all up his nostrils, and he suspects it's coming from him. While he's soaking in the scalding tub and trying to stop trembling, Thrasher finds a hex bag inside his mattress.

Later, while chugging a handful of potions that jumpstart his entire system, he asks Alfie to help him revert that nightmare hex.

"I'll have to read up on those, I'm afraid my dark enchantments are rather rusty," is the entirely unsatisfactory answer.

"So glad I've got _you_ ," Sirius mutters, shaking his head. "Try and see if you have something by tonight," he adds, while he lets the ring have every last shred of his lingering dread, but even then, he can't shake the deeply disturbing sensation. It is made worse because there's nobody he can talk to about this beyond Alfie; the House of Black does zero accountability like no-one else.

.

* * *

.

Sirius is still shaken from the vivid nightmare when he's got to welcome people during the morning viewing. Now the tunnels are filled with incense, fanning charms and extraction spells. The air is thick, and it's making him feel heavy and drained. It's not a good combination. It's also probably some draining spell or other, but he is too tired to even wonder about it.

It's also not the only thing that has changed since breakfast.

Unheard by everyone else, Sirius's sharp ears pick up a constant low sort of drone, kind of like an atmospheric hum. At first, it is easily overheard, all it does is cause a headache. Sirius sends for a pain potion, but it doesn't help. In the low droning sound, there's a confusion of voices, and part of him can't help but try and make out what they say.

 _Blood traitor, shame, stain on our name. You should just give up, little Sirius. You can't do anything against us. We are hundreds, against only one of you._

It's a chorus of whispers, now threatening, now insulting. It wears him out, leaves him feeling depressed and powerless, and he figures it would be rather more shocking if he hadn't grown up hearing this and worse for the past three years.

 _I'm coming for you. And I, and I, and I and I…_ The voices don't leave him again for as long as he is in Blackmore End, and soon his troubles are so many, he doesn't bother.

Tom Riddle, a handsome, tall wizard Sirius always recognises but can never recall meeting at all, arrives at the head of the second group, flanked by Bellatrix and Rodolphus, and looking quite at ease with the world.

"My condolences, young Lord," says Mr. Riddle, after giving a cursory peek into Father's stone coffin. He whistles through his teeth. "That was a nasty way to go."

"At least it wasn't drawn out," Sirius replies automatically. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Riddle."

"Tom, please," says the wizard, turning to him. He seems quite unbothered by the stench. Dazzling white teeth flash at Sirius, blue eyes piercing his in an attempt at Legilimency Sirius bats away without even noticing. He looks hungry, and the Dog's hackles rise, a growl suddenly tries to fight its way out of his throat. "I expect now you are The Black, we shall see _much_ of each other in the near future."

"I'm not The Black yet," Sirius replies lightly, although inwardly he is trying not to snarl. "I guess we'll see how that works out. Bellatrix, escort Mr. Riddle to have a pick-me-up on me."

"Yes, Lord," that little hypocrite says, curtsy and all. Sirius finds he'll have her do that more often. The rest of him is downright rattled by that wizard. He gives him the creeps.

"I'll see you around, Mr. Black."

Any other time, Sirius would have been very suspicious of this wizard. Any other time, he might have had the energy to wonder about him, but over the past two days, he's been surrounded by Britain's Darkest, and Riddle doesn't even make a dent in his awareness, completely forgotten by the time the next couple walks in, gagging and holding hankies to their faces.

It's an unending line of people, and Sirius is inwardly begging for a breather five minutes later. His right hand keeps twitching, a nervous tick he's had forever. It usually vanishes after a few days at school, but whenever he's around his family, for some reason his fingers acquire a life of their own, a prehensile sort of spasm that occurs involuntarily as he shakes the umpteenth hand, bows to the next family arriving, thanks them for coming and for their condolences, receives flowers, pats on the shoulder, assurances of a support he knows isn't real, that he neither wants nor cares for.

It doesn't help that he's also having trouble focusing; at one point, he's _sure_ Father is at the far end of the stone chamber, raising his cane at him to get his attention — not a ghost, but as real as any of the living people shuffling into the vault. At another point, he is sure he sees the walls close in, the ceiling begin to drop. A little later, he looks down while waiting for a new group to file in, and the floor gives way under his feet as a sinkhole opens — he catches himself before he lets out a startled yelp — only to realise nothing has changed at all: he is seeing things now.

So, he might be excused for failing to recognise Peter at first, in the first group that visits after a lunch spent puzzling over seating arrangements for that night's state dinner, giving interviews, and trying to figure out how to cancel the spells in the hex bag they found earlier. He frowns at the chubby blond boy in front of him, whose mouth is moving, but his words, not being the standard lines his ears have grown used to, fail to make sense.

All he can bite out is, "Thank you for coming, Peter," gives him a jerky sort of handshake before his Gran ushers him out, muttering something about Orion looking better now than he had in life.

It takes Sirius a handful of minutes to process that, and when he does, his day is made… and he starts wondering if he'll see Peter later.

He doesn't.

There are some others, from school, and they keep giving him flowers for some reason. Sirius thanks them automatically, puts the things in a vase. He doesn't even stop to wonder why they're all alike, why they hum with magic between his fingers. Had he had the presence of mind, he'd immediately have noticed they aren't even flowers, but as things are, he misses it altogether, and Mother sends Gnasher in later, to take them away and burn them.

Sirius is beyond spent by the time he's greeted and thanked the last group of witches and wizards of the evening and Thrasher comes to pick him up for high tea. Alfie was right in saying he'd need a goblin valet — he needs support just to get out of the Mausoleum.

"Quick," he mutters, "before the ghosts come out." They have been mostly absent all day, but Sirius has spotted a few tell-tale shimmers peeking out of the walls, and he is too tired to be sucked into their conversations right now.

He knows, or a part of him knows, that he should look lively — the viewing is over, and now the real challenge begins. He decides to take a break before he faces his relatives — who will have amassed quite the grudge against him by now.

It's not the right thing to do.

.

* * *

.

Sirius isn't entirely sure when it starts. Even later, it's hard to tell reality from _this_ , whatever it is. He is pretty sure it begins when turns a corner to get to his rooms — and suddenly finds himself in the Library at Grimmauld Place.

It's such a familiar place, it's so _common_ to lose big chunks of time when he's around his family, that it takes him an additional moment to process what he's seeing at all.

"So, your mother told me what you did. I must say, I would never have expected you to sit her down on her couch." Father chuckles with amusement, pours himself a stiff drink. "She demanded thirty lashes, and we don't have endless time. There's a lot for you to do, visitors to greet this evening, so shake a leg and get me the Cane."

" _What_?" Sirius looks around, but all he can see is the all-too familiar Library he has grown up hating with a passion.

"Take off your shirt. Don't make me say it again." Father's tone is a bored drawl, and yet the threat is there, hanging between them.

"You're _dead_ ," Sirius reminds him, but his heart is hammering in his chest. "You can't do this anymore."

"Watch me," Father chuckles, the dreaded Cutting Cane in his hand. "Now lean over the desk and grip the edge."

"You're dead! Your life is over!"

"We'll double the punishment, then, shall we. Maybe then it will sink in. Don't _make_ me bind you to the wall." Father's amusement is gone from his tone. He's all flashing eyes, all impending doom as he steps towards him and shoves him at the shelves so hard, Sirius almost falls.

Sirius feels his stomach plummet. He is suddenly glued to a bookshelf.

"What the hell?" He tries to move, but can't. His feet too, are spelled in place, as behind him, Father finishes his drink and gives the Cane an experimental swish. "Father, _no_ —"

Sirius grits his teeth so hard, his jaw pops as his breath is knocked out of his lungs in a rush. The sound of a firecracker going off reaches his ears about the same time his back flares up.

"What was that?" Father asks. "If you won't keep count, I'll just keep going until I'm tired. You can't expect me to do all the work around here."

"O-one," Sirius wheezes, out of habit. He stares disbelievingly at his hands, which are stuck fast between _A Genealogy of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black_ and the _Encyclopaedia of Toadstools_. The ring of the Blacks glints on his finger, reflecting the dancing light of the torches.

"But you're _dead_ ," Sirius argues. "You shouldn't be able to do this."

 _Crack_ —

"Keep account of it, boy."

"You're dead! I saw you!" This isn't real. It _can't_ be.

"Maybe you only dreamt it," Father suggests. "Ever think of that? You never left Grimmauld Place at all." It's such a viable possibility, Sirius is rendered speechless. Not that this means there is a silence.

 _Crack_ —

Sirius lets out a harsh breath. For as often as this has happened, today it hurts more than ever.

 _Crack._

"What? No clever comebacks?" Father asks, amused. "No wild accusations?" Sirius has nothing for him; his mind is reeling, trying to decide what is real and what isn't. "Where's the fight in you today?"

 _Crack._

Sirius's eyes are burning now. He wrenches them shut, presses his forehead against his hands as his legs give way.

 _Crack_.

" _Stop_ —" It sounds strangely like a plea to his own ears, but Sirius's world is shattering, falling apart around him and he is past caring what leaves his mouth. If he _hasn't_ left Grimmauld Place in ages… No. _Impossible_. Why would he fantasise about this whole stupid Succession thing? Why would it all be so bloody vivid?

"We're just getting started here, boy."

"This _isn't_ real," Sirius gasps out. "I— I saw you! You're _dead_! You—"

Realisation hits. He opens his eyes, just to make sure. The dogs on the ring stare back at him with diamond eyes.

"You don't even have the ring anymore." This _isn't_ real. This is some twisted, sick sort of joke —

He turns towards his father, as the Library dissolves around him, disappears, books and Father and all. And is that laughter echoing faintly in the corridor?

Sweat streaming down his face, Sirius sinks down along the wall of the ornate corridor, chest heaving and rattled to the core. He gives his panic to the ring, but the searing pain lingers much longer.

"Here you are!" greets him a little later, as he is entering his room at a wobble. When he looks up, there's _Peter_. "Dude, you look like shit."

"Pete? What are you doing here? I thought you'd left with your Gran," Sirius tells him, but his face breaks into a grin. "Listen, mate, I'm sorry about earlier. I was just…" Sirius trails off, shrugs his shoulders. "I'm just _tired_."

"And I'm _hungry_ ," Peter says, smiling without a hint of reproach. "Can I have that?" he asks, gesturing towards a nearby table, where someone — the butler goblin, perhaps, or the elves— has left him a plate with a silver cover.

"Go for it," Sirius tells him with a shrug.

"Thanks, man," says Peter cheerfully, "I feel so _empty_ I could eat a horse." The next instant, Sirius is biting back a cry: Peter moves towards the table, the back of his head a gaping hole, blood dripping down his back… his entire midsection carved out, and yet he digs into the roast chicken with gusto. Sirius can see the bits of food fall down onto the carpet, leaving wet, bloody lumps as Peter chews and swallows.

 _This isn't real,_ Sirius thinks, shutting his eyes tightly. The chewing sounds stop.

"Sirius? Sirius, wake up!"

When he opens his eyes again, he is standing on the doorway to his room, Alfie's hands on his shoulders, shaking him back into reality.

"I wasn't asleep— Pete was… _Where's Pete_?"

"There's no-one here," Alfie tells him, his face ashen. "Just us. Whatever they did— we need to figure this out."

" _You_ figure this out," Sirius mutters furiously, a deep-seated sort of anger welling up deep inside him the instant he has fed his fear to the ring. "I've had it. I'm torching everybody."

"That's an admirable plan," Alfie says, holding him back before he can put his idea into action. "But it'll have to wait until after dinner. You are entertaining the Minister for Magic, tonight."

"Aw, man."

.

* * *

.

He joins the Blacks and their distinguished guests for dinner that night. Alfie walks with him and there are no waking nightmares along the way, but the ever-present hum of voices is there, barely audible, distracting, picking away at his awareness like a very annoying mosquito.

 _You think you can outsmart us? You are nothing but a mistake, a disappointment. Useless. Worthless bag of scum. You are_ nothing _, Sirius Black. Nothing but a bit of dirt we'll scrape off our shoes and then carry on like nothing happened._

He'd be lying if he said it isn't starting to get to him. He looks around warily, sees Father out of the corner of his eye leaning against a column, hefting the Rod with a smirk. By the time he arrives at the state dining room, he has to forcibly remind himself none of the things he's been hearing and seeing are real.

Their hatred of him is real enough, sure. But the things he's been seeing… they want to make him lose it. He needs an anchor to reality — someone, something he can rely on, no matter what. But James is miles away, and there's a reason Sirius has kept him oblivious to the worse things that happen here.

He'll just have to muddle through on his own, he decides, as he greets guests and relations alike, smiles all around. Inwardly, however, he is shaken and it's hard not to let it show.

He takes a seat with them all, making smalltalk and exchanging the sort of niceties that have been drilled into him for as long as he can remember, and he bites back a smirk as about half the dinner guests give a simultaneous start, as though they've been stung.

"Why are they jumping like that, Sirius?" Regulus, who is seated to his right, asks him. "Maybe they had bouncy beans for lunch?"

"That's probably it, Reggie," Sirius answers, not bothering to hide his amusement. He had forgotten all about the rigged underwear and other pranks he'd left there for his relatives, and finds himself more awake now, scanning the table for signs of success.

He could spend the day watching Bellatrix and Narcissa try to surreptitiously scratch themselves, and is that a large boil on Great-Aunt Elladora's nose?

Having to constantly suppress a guffaw helps him get through dinner without much of a hitch, and he doesn't fail to notice that a handful of people are missing altogether. As the evening wears on, he hears there have been a bunch of odd occurrences in the old palace; some seem to be sleeping through dinner, others, floating a few feet in the air, and they complain that windows vanish at random too.

"They had to tie Felix Moon and Tamara Wilkes to their chairs so they won't float off," Regulus confides, and Sirius gives him a smile. How he can keep from laughing out loud, he doesn't know, but Reg is snickering for the first time in days. Next to him, Mother gives him a sharp glance without making eye contact with Sirius.

The gathering is not without its tensions; Minister Eugenia Jenkins and her husband look about as thrilled to be here as he is, but thankfully they're seated closer to Alfie, who does a capital job at distracting them and is soon engaged in an animated conversation about Mysteries of the Mind or something, and Sirius pretends to listen politely, allows his mind to wander. On Reg's other side, Mother is laughing and seemingly having a grand old time with Mr. Riddle. Sirius's deeply-ingrained sense of precession — one of Father's favourite topics — flares up, and he briefly wonders why that wizard is sitting so close to the head table at all. Riddle is not an old Wizarding name, which makes this bloke a Half-Blood at best. Not someone who would ordinarily be welcome at the Black table.

Whenever things get boring — so after five minutes or so — Sirius finds ways to stay entertained. First to float off their seats are Felix and Tamara, and Sirius gives Regulus a sideways glance, a wink, watches him break into a true smile at last as the Moons and the Wilkes scramble to tether their offspring to their chairs again. Then, as they are waiting for dessert, the large windows vanish, letting in the rain and making the chandeliers rattle and the Blacks scarper.

"Will the press be here again tomorrow?" Delphina wants to know, giving a little jump and a squeak along with about half the other Blacks, some of whom just reach around themselves and pull their pants out after the umpteenth wedgie.

The state room where they are holding the after-dinner get-together is rather devoid of people; some retired early, claiming all sorts of excuses, from headaches to extreme sadness. Others are valiantly enduring the event to its — undoubtedly bitter by now — end.

"I expect so," Sirius tells her with a shrug.

"They're publishing slander," Cygnus mutters angrily. "Rumours making their way across the country."

 _At least I'm getting under their skins_ , Sirius establishes with satisfaction, leaning against the grand piano. Aloud, he adds, "Don't mind rumours. I love them, I always find out amazing things about myself I never knew."

"But we are _Blacks_!" Ursus Bonham-Black snaps, above the scattered laughter Sirius earned himself. "We cannot allow the _plebe_ to mock us. They should be put in their place, not— gallivanting all over the place, trying to dig up dirt on our most noble House." Ursus had had all hands full trying to keep the press out of the upper floors, where they kept trying to snap pictures of the artifacts… which, so Thrasher reported, had been hidden somewhere near the Oubliettes. Sirius made sure his third cousin didn't hear about that. "We are stars, aren't we," he adds, proving someone has been paying attention to his motivational speeches, "They should be awed by us from a distance."

"Hold me Ursus, that was _beautiful_ ," Sirius says mockingly, and to his surprise, this time he gets more than a smattering of laughs.

"Oh shut up, Sirius."

"That would be, "Shut up, my Lord,"" Sirius reminds him lightly, taking a sip of his sparkling wine. It does the job. Ursus glares at him, but his piehole is closed for the rest of the evening.

Predictably, he is once again, made to go guard his father's stinking carcass.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, getting up.

 _Can my life get any worse?_ he wonders, surreptitiously checking if his wand is still in his sleeve.

"My son is a _Gryffindor_ ," Mother is telling the Minister for Magic with affectation. "He is so brave, he has taken it onto himself to guard his father's body every night."

"He's a very devoted son," Minister Jenkins comments.

"That's right," Sirius says, taking his leave of the guests. "It's not as bad as all that, I need the time with dear old Papa. You wouldn't believe the _amazing_ conversations we've had."

"We will accompany you, dear cousin," Bellatrix says, and Sirius spots tonight's death squad already by the door. There's the Lestrange brothers, MacNair, Rosier, Borgin, Wilkes, and to his surprise, Ursus Bonham-Black and Aquila Black join them.

"There's really no need for that," Sirius replies, already on his way out. "Believe me, I could find my way there in my sleep."

"Oh, but we _want_ to spend some quality time with you. You've been so _busy_ of late, we hardly see each other anymore," Bellatrix says, grabbing him by the arm and marching him away. Not for the last time, Sirius curses his short stature— they're all huge and dangerous in their own way — but the dread is thankfully absent from his system. Any other time, he' be wetting himself right now.

"If you must," Sirius replies. "Have a good night all, I'll see you in the morning."

"We'll see about that," Tristram Borgin sneers.

"Is that supposed to be threatening?" Sirius asks coolly, yanking himself free from Bellatrix's hold. "Because you know…" He gestures in midair, "the effect is about middling."

"Did you enjoy it there last night?" Bellatrix croons at him, as they make their way outside, past a few reporters still asking old Elladora about her hobbies, a handful of the younger Blacks who are trying to get into the spirits cabinet. Sirius unlocks it for them with a flick of his fingers.

"You should stay, then you'd see for yourself how much fun it really is," Sirius mutters, half resigned to his immediate fate.

 _When I asked, 'can my life get any worse?' I meant it as a rethorical question, not a challenge._ He chuckles with amusement regardless; what did he expect? They'd never miss a chance to make him miserable, and they're good at it.

"What's funny, cousin?" Aquila wants to know.

"I can explain it to you, but I can't understand it for you. If I try, we'd be here come dawn."

Bellatrix and Tristram snort.

"Are you calling us _stupid_ , you little berk?" Ursus asks, towering over him the instant they're outside in the harsh cold.

"Stupid?" Sirius echoes. " _Never._ I'd call you functional morons at best."

Ursus and Aquila exchange a look that's about as dim as he expected. It makes the rest burst out laughing, but Sirius is acutely aware, as they leave the lawn and enter a path flanked by shoulder-high shrubs, the truce is over.

"Quick reminder before we get there," Bellatrix stops short the instant they're out of camera range. "This is for breaking Rodolphus's nose."

Sirius dodges the first blow, and Bellatrix totters face forward into the bushes. He gives her a swift shove to help her get there all the way.

"Whoops, mind your step," he tells her. Bellatrix and the others all give a yelp, a jump. "And do pull your knickers out of that twist," Sirius chortles.

"You did this, didn't you?" Tristram Burke snaps, even as MacNair lunges for him.

"No, your pants love to yank upwards all their own," Sirius laughs, already putting both legs to good use.

"You'll pay for this," Bellatrix shrieks, raffling herself up, her evening gown torn and scratched up. "Get him!"Sirius doesn't wait for her at all, though. Already his wand is out, and he animates the shrubs to grow arms and hold the lot of them back.

"As far as revenges go, this one's a bit wank," he calls over his shoulder. Already he is a good twenty yards away from them, and the barking laugh he's bit back all day finally makes it out.

" _Decerpo_!" Bellatrix tries last night's trick, but Sirius manages to dodge it, heart racing, and she yanks a big rock towards her instead. It barrels into the Lestrange brothers, and Bellatrix shrieks in rage.

As his loving cousins are trying to undo his hasty Transfiguration, Sirius decides going into the nearby woods instead of Blackmore Hill, but it's not his best idea — he is played out, and he knows it. At least inside Father's vault, there is a modicum of safety. The stench is a far better deterrent than anything he could come up with, and maybe tonight the ghosts will let him sleep. If not, Thrasher already left him a box of vials, some snacks and a blanket hidden behind one of the wreaths.

He jogs forward, looking for a concealed enough spot to turn into the Dog. He'd have better chances against them then. _Yeah_ , he decides as he spots a large boulder up ahead. _That's a good id_ —

He doesn't even see it coming.

" _Obfirmum_!" The spell hits him like a tonne of bricks. Sirius doesn't even get to whip around, when something like barbed wire wraps tightly around him and he's crashing down, face-forward, onto the mossy forest floor.

"So you think we're all _wank_ , do you?" MacNair sneers, twirling his wand. Of course, that dude loves hunting down — and killing — all manner of animals. Suddenly, Sirius is glad he didn't go Dog. He wouldn't have stood a chance. Not like this, not tonight.

"I think she's a slag and you're just a knob," Sirius supplies helpfully, as he is rolled onto his back like a sack of potatoes. "But put you all together, and "wankers" is the term that comes to mind, yeah."

They don't bother with hexes and curses, this time; today, the verbal abuse and heckling comes coupled with a side of punches and kicks. Sirius really only feels the first one, a hard hoof to the stomach that makes him double over with a wheeze. The second booted foot contacts the side of his head.

.

* * *

.

One thing might be said for them— they do spare the face. Sort of. And the family jewels, thus proving that their shared education is equally adamant in one regard.

Sirius comes to in the locked vault again, head spinning and uncomfortably hot. The first thing that hits him is Orion's stench that makes the already thick air almost impossible to breathe. Now he just smells of rot, of _death_. It's unbearable, sickly-sweet and just revolting.

Sirius feels tired, too tired to do anything about it, and part of him frankly can't be bothered anymore.

Some ghosts mock him, "I can't believe you let them do it again!"

"What kind of a Black are you?"

"A tiny one," says another, and they all laugh. Worst of all is Orion, whose laugh drowns out all others and does wonders to wake Sirius up. The fat ghost — Rigel I (or IV, Sirius isn't quite sure and doesn't give a damn) — rants on about how the Blacks will never change.

Cygnus III and Arcturus VII, though, are equally adamant not to let him sleep. They yell at him, try to shake him into wakefulness. Their ghostly slaps just go through him, though, which is a blessing.

"Get up, boy, get over it," snaps Arcturus VII. "This is no time to fall apart. Leave that to my useless son," he adds, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the stone coffin, where Orion's chunky ghost is trying to sit up. He looks nothing like the image of him Sirius has been seeing all day.

Sirius closes his eyes, breathing heavily. He doesn't see the point in getting up. It sounds like too much work, and everything is throbbing and searing something wonderful by now, too. Maybe he can just stay here… get some sleep at last.

"Now get up," Arcturus snaps imperiously. "Get up and open the vault before you run out of air, you stupid child."

"Oh, leave him alone," says Delphina IV, watching him fondly. "Let him rest, and in a little while he'll be one of us. He'll stay here, with us all, for eternity."

"I'm looking forward to that," Orion rasps out.

Sirius's eyes snap open. That voice, the certainty of it, does wonders to make him decide to give it another go, after all.

"Come on, if there's nothing broken, there's no reason not to get off your backside and open that door," Cygnus III orders. Sirius nods, but each movement is a major struggle. He drags himself towards the lever, wheezing for air. He's running out of breaths here, and Delphina IV argues it's for the best.

 _No,_ he decides. _I won't give them that satisfaction_.

He gets up on rubbery legs, cramped-up fingers gripping the rough stone walls. Before he can stick his fingernails into the edges of the stone to release the vault door, though, it opens out of its own accord.

" _No_ , cousin Bella! _Please_!" a shrill voice fills the air that suddenly rushes in. All Sirius can do is stare, to see Regulus being yanked along, heels dug into the stone floor.

"You've got some company, tonight," Bellatrix sneers, throwing a sobbing, panicking Reg into the vault with him.

It's just the sort of thing that makes him see red in a split second.

"Leave him alone!" Sirius snaps, and lunges for her. Bellatrix is faster, though. A Strike Spell sends him flying against the wall, crushing all air from his lungs, the back of his head knocks into the stone.

"Oh, I'll leave him alone," she says. "I'll leave the two of you alone, we'll see what's left of you in the morning." She kicks him in the gut, laughs, shoves the panicked, sobbing Regulus back onto the floor as he tries to stand. Sirius rings for breath, the heat in his skull a burning hot throb as the slab seals them in once more and they're plunged in darkness.

Of the ghosts, there is suddenly no sign.

"What happened, Reggie?" Sirius asks, trying not to slur his words.

"I said— I said you shouldn't be alone," Regulus sobs in the darkness. "That it was unfair. Mum was so _cross_ , and Bella…"

"Oh, _Reggie_." Sirius raffles himself up, shuffles unsteadily to where he remembers his brother being last. He pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, but moves past him to where he remembers the hidden lever to be. "That was just a dumb move on your part."

"Is it always this dark?" Regulus sobs and gags. Out of them all, Regulus hasn't been down here once. "And this _stinky_?"

"Yeah. Let me just—" It takes longer than last night, but Sirius manages to pull the stone out and open the vault door. Instantly, the torches flare up, and Sirius looks down at his brother's tear-streaked face. Regulus gasps at the sight of him.

"What happened?"

"You have to ask?" Sirius retorts, now making his unsteady way to the back of the vault. Now Reg is here, his priorities — which were mainly centred on letting the Blacks win and getting some sleep — are reshuffled at once.

"I'll tell Mother," Regulus promises, palming his fist. It makes Sirius laugh with earnest amusement.

"Oh yeah, because that solves everything," he chortles, groaning as he fishes the potions Alfie left for him from behind a wilting wreath.

"If you _told_ her, she'd do something," Regulus argues, wiping his face and covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief.

"Trust me Reg, she knows." Sirius downs his potions in a few swigs, hoping the troll piss drink will actually do the trick and fix what feels like a handful of broken ribs.

And what do you know, it does better than that. Sirius cricks his neck, feeling fit enough for another go with his cousins all of a sudden. All Reg does is stare at him. He hasn't moved, and past the stench of carcass, his fear is filling every inch of breathable air.

"Come on, Reggie," Sirius prompts. "Let's go someplace else."

They take over a nearby parlour and play chess using chess pieces that look like they have been carved from human bones, and Sirius puts his blanket around Regulus's shoulders when the temperature drops and he's threatening to nod off where he sits. When Regulus falls asleep, Sirius realises they haven't said a thing all night. He can't sleep, though; after feeding the ring and drinking the potions, Sirius is completely wired and angry.

"Who's that, then?" Sirius I asks curiously not five minutes later.

"That's my little brother, why didn't you come out?"

"We only come out for you," Cygnus III explains. "We watch the others, but we don't speak to them."

"Get back here, boy," Orion's voice calls from the depths of the vault.

"Ignore him," says Arcturus VII mockingly, "my son is _upset_ because he didn't get assembled right. I say it's his own fault for getting himself so foolishly blasted to bits."

"He was sitting up, though," Sirius answers, staring in the direction of the vault despite himself.

"Aye, but it'll take him a long time to keep himself together enough to get out of his coffin," was the confident answer. "A handful of years at least. It took Rigel over there one year to manage to float his chair." The ghosts roar with laughter, but Sirius doesn't join in.

Over the past few hours, he has been mulling things over, and he is rather in the mood for brooding on his own, not joking around with his dead ancestors. He has to figure out a way to get a grip on things, he decides, because he doesn't want to join them and be stuck in this place with Father forever.

"Bee in your bonnet?" asks Cygnus III, who has been staring at him for a while.

"You could say that," Sirius mumbles, watching his brother sleep and weighing his options carefully. These ghosts are all nice and decent to him, but they don't seem to know what he's facing, exactly. Will they react the same way if he tells them? And does he really want to risk it?

 _Sod it,_ he thinks. He could use all the advice he can get, so what the hell, right?

So he tells them. Not everything, not by a long shot — there aren't enough hours in the night for that — but he does tell them about the hex bags, the illusions, even the voices he's been hearing. He tells them about not wanting to be The Black, because he doesn't want to lead that bunch of snakes _anywhere_.

"… And I know Reggie would be good at it. They adore him, and he's perfect for the job," Sirius sighs. "But right now, he's just the spare — and you saw how that hag treated him, and all I want is to get them all back for it," he finishes. To his immense surprise, the only one who complains about anything Sirius said, is Orion.

"Get back here, you useless, gormless, idiot child!" he shouts, but even from here, Sirius can see the effort of it makes him fall apart into the million pieces he has become, and he can't help chuckling a little.

"Never mind him, dear," Delphina IV assures him, floating to sit down next to him. "Tell him, Artie."

"We are aware of most of what you said," Arcturus VII tells a surprised Sirius. "In life, we were a little bit like you, you see—"

"Only taller," Rigel chimes in and garners laughter, even from Sirius.

"Definitely," Cygnus admits. "I was at least four inches taller than you at fourteen."

"You and everyone else," Sirius answers, shrugging one shoulder. His height, or lack thereof, is definitely not the way he'd hoped this conversation would go.

"Leave him alone, he can't help it," Delphina snaps, and her umbrella thwacks some of them all its own. Cygnus IV's head is whacked clean out of his hands, and they all fall about laughing again. "You should mock his mother, for not feeding him properly. Oh we know all about _that_ ," she adds to Sirius. "We might not be able to do anything about it—"

"Except make Orion miserable every time we could," Arcturus VII supplies.

"Fat lot of good that did," Delphina sniffles. "Not to mention, Phineas Nigellus and his lot had his ear more often than not."

"Phineas?" Sirius echoes, confused. Now he thinks of it, he's had to memorise the entire bloody family tree — up to the latest witch born, even if she isn't technically part of the family anymore — and for the first time he wonders, where are the others?

"Oh, he won't bother you, if he knows what's good for him," Arcturus VII says confidently. "But the voices you've been hearing, that's them. All the traditionalist Blacks are rather mad over your Accession."

"Oh." It's a bit disappointing. "I thought it was Bellatrix's doing." Then there would be a way to counter it, right? To every spell, there is at least one counterspell.

"No, but she did placed the hex bags all over the place, aided by most of the family. The things you've been seeing are a Darker kind of magic, not sure who cast those. And you're not wrong — they want you at the table as much as you want to be there. And the only way you can get Regulus to take your place is if you…"

"Cop it," Sirius finishes for him. It comes out more defeated than he thought it would.

"But that doesn't mean you have to _die_ ," Delphina IV tells him encouragingly. "And even if you do, you'll always be welcome here."

"Thanks, I guess," Sirius answers, and he means it. "If I don't, though… They'll keep picking on Regulus, won't they? It'll just get worse."

"Probably," Cygnus III says, shrugging. The other ghosts nod their agreement. "They know you'll defend him, so…"

"So… what is this other way, then?" Sirius asks after a moment's silence. "What did you mean by, I don't have to _die_ to… die?"

"Well, if you go through with it, you still might," Arcturus VII points out. "I'd suck it up and take the table for myself and put them in these vaults instead."

Sirius laughs at that. He never met his grandfather in life, but he gets the sense that life would have been much more different if he had.

"I'd love to do that," he admits.

"As has every single Black before you," is the answer. "None of us ever did, because, well. Right now you're worried about your brother, aren't you?" Sirius nods. "Imagine feeling that for every single member of the family, up to the more obscure branches."

"Yeah, somehow I don't think I'll ever really—"

"Oh, you _will_. It's started already," is the ominous response. "That ring is much more than Sirius I's heirloom. It binds you to your House, blood and soul — and you _will_ care, lad, if you ever complete the rituals. They are as much a test for you as they are for your House, that is why you will be untouchable if you manage to pass."

Sirius just stares at them in silence for a long time, feeling sick to his stomach. They seem to notice, because Arcturus VII ploughs on.

"If you really wish to relinquish your birthright, we cannot blame you," he says, his tone businesslike. "Your late father messed it up years ago, and he just never got it right. He assumed you would be as bound to him as he was bound to the House, because he forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"Who he was. He forgot he was Orion Rigel Saiph IV, not just The Black. He stopped being his own wizard, and gave in to the traditionalists, like Phineas. He forgot to do what he claimed was the most important thing — to put family first. Mind you, those are the times we live in."

"The past," Sirius mutters, earns a few chuckles, but the ghosts are all waiting for Arcturus VII to continue.

"Yes. Well, they require a firm, even cruel hand to protect them all. But cruelty should stop at your doorstep, not be trapped within it." Arcturus VII adds, "And now it's your turn at the helm. Your ideas are much the same as we ourselves had in life, but your House… they're not ready for what you want. They're not ready to shed their skin and become what they — most of them at least — wish to be."

"You are not the only one trapped in the system. It's all of us. And we all want to be free of it, but it's a frightening proposition," Cygnus IV's head tells Sirius from under the coffee table. "Your House knows nothing about freedom, so they cling to what they know. To their comforts. And they will stop at nothing to get to keep them. They want to feel safe. Your father made them feel safe for forty years. You, on the other hand…"

"Disaster waiting to happen, I know," Sirius mutters, shaking his head. "So, dying without dying?"

"Yes. You still might. The process will be dangerous, and hard, and painful. If you're not put off by any of that…"

"Nope." It can't be worse than what's happened so far, can it? Just today has been torture, and will every day be like this?

"You need to push them into blasting you off the Family Tree. If it doesn't kill you, good. You'll be free. If the spell fails and it does kill you, you'll still come here and become one of us. But as your heir, Regulus will have all the responsibilities and perks that come with the title, and nobody will harm him. If you stay on, nobody will ever harm you again."

"How do I do that?" Sirius asks at once.

"First," Delphina tells him grimly, "you must survive your Accession."

.

* * *

.

 _Well_ , Sirius thinks as his watch chimes two in the morning and the potions begin to wear off. _That did actually help_.

He glances in the direction of Father's coffin, where the Black ghosts are messing with him — tossing silvery body parts out, playing a rowdy game of hot head or something. It is clear they only want to have fun, not talk about anything dismal and upsetting. They might all be dead and have eternity, but it's as though being The Black, for however long or short their time, has left them as drained as Sirius himself feels. They are happily deceased, and get to do the things they never enjoyed in life, because their lives, unlike those of the "traditionalists", were _nasty_.

Sirius can relate.

His eyes fall on Regulus, and he wonders if he'll go through with it. Getting blasted off the tapestry — the Blacks' worst punishment — is his only hope to put him in a position where he'll never have to be under the thumb of the likes of Bellatrix, ever again. At this point, he isn't sure he'll do it; his mind is reeling with options and plans — Arcturus V, VI and VII and the Cygnuses all agree that he could easily outwit the Blacks and then kick their collective arses, and that he _should_ — and Sirius feels overwhelmed with information.

There is one thing, though, that he absolutely _wants_ to do, and this seems as good a time as any. He did say he'll torch them all, and he meant it. Sirius doesn't know if he'll survive this whole thing, but he is certain of one thing: he'll either go out kicking, wand blazing, or not at all.

"I need to do a wee," he announces a bit later, which is met with confusion at first, then with firm instructions not to do it in their parlours, which are once more, filled with ghosts. There is a lav near the entrance, they say. Sirius nods, makes sure Regulus is asleep and the fire is burning in the grate, and trots himself away.

He is crossing the entrance to Blackmore Hill, already thinking he'll start by setting the dining room on fire, when there is a shock and he is blasted backwards, robes smoking and his hair on end.

"That bitch," he mutters furiously, cursing as he raffles himself up, sparks flying from his hands, but laughter cuts him off. He turns around to see Sirius I floating his way.

"That wasn't her," he chortles. "You're here to stand vigil, so you cannot leave before first light."

" _Great_ ," Sirius mutters, thrusts his hands in his pockets.

"Come, let's play swordfighting," Sirius I prompts. "If you go at first light, you'll still have plenty of time to get payback."

Sirius gazes wistfully towards the old palace across the grounds. Just then, a sudden outburst of screams and yelps tears across the peaceful landscape, and Sirius and Sirius both get as close as possible to the entrance. There, barely visible in the waning moonlight, Sirius sees a large four-poster bed squeeze itself out the window and crawl along the walls and battlements. Bellatrix's furious screams echo all the way to the mausoleum. Five minutes later, the more familiar voice of his mother joins in.

"That was you?" Sirius I asks. Sirius nods, smirks with satisfaction. Sirius I watches the shadowy outlines critically for a moment, and adds, "You know, you should make them glow next time. They're hard to see from here."

"You'll have a better view from the hilltop," Sirius suggests, as all the dead Blacks start gathering at the entrance to have a look. "It might be fun."

As soon as their silvery backs are turned, Sirius turns into the Dog and paws at the ward in the entrance. And what do you know, as the Dog, he can leave.

He stops for a moment to watch the chaos unfold as the Blacks try to get Bellatrix off the battlements, even going as far as taking their broomsticks to rescue her — but the bed speeds off, ducking away from them and leaping from the tower, to the outer walls, to a very precarious perch on a balcony. On the other side of the palace, Mother isn't faring much better.

As Sirius I promised, the ward keeping him trapped in the hill dissolves at first light on Friday morning, but Sirius misses it; he wore himself out exacting his revenge and is fast asleep on an armchair by the time dawn breaks, the glorious reds and oranges of sunrise punctuated by identical screams and twin splashes, as Bellatrix and his mother plunge into the moat with their beds.

While the dive and plunge is witnessed by the sleep-deprived Blacks in the palace, they are by no means the only audience; hundreds of ghosts sit on the hillside, watching the show, as they have for hours now. Even the traditionalists like Phineas Nigellus agree that this Black heir, at least, will provide endless entertainment. "He is still a useless, worthless waste of breath, though," he adds regardless, giving the passed-out boy a dirty look as he floats past him on his way to his vault.

"He's a nipper, Phineas, he'll come around," Cygnus III tells him bracingly. "There's hope for him yet."

"Oh, baby cousin, this is _exactly_ how I wanted to catch you," Bellatrix breaks through the dark haze of sleep, holding a dagger with a slender, wickedly sharp blade in her hand.

"Wha…?" Sirius chokes out as he starts awake, tries to back away from her. She smirks at him, her clothes dripping wet from the moat, her expression crazed.

"You think you can get away with any of what you did?" she asks lazily, then giggles. A flick of her wand pins him in place, a swish makes his buttons pop, his undershirt vanish. Wet, icy cold fingers run down his bared chest, and Sirius's breath catches in his throat.

"What the hell are you _doing_?!" His voice is a squeak, eyes fixed on the glinting blade in her hand. She doesn't plunge it into him, no. She cuts _lines_ , deep and searing and worse than anything he's felt before.

"Stay still, baby Sirius," she tells him, brow furrowed in concentration. "Stay still or it'll come out all shaky and wrong and I'll have to start over." Sirius cries out with each cut, pain and panic blending into a dizzying mix of horror as she cuts him up, unhurriedly carves 'BLOOD TRAITOR' onto his chest — and his blood is _everywhere_ , if nothing has, then _this_ will kill him for sure, he'll bleed out, he'll die now after all, her childish giggle echoing in his ears the last thing he'll hear—

Sirius comes to, still screaming at the top of his lungs, flailing to push her away while simultaneously trying to make a run for it.

"Wake up, Sirius—"

But the hands on him aren't Bellatrix's. It is Alfie who is shaking him, trying to pin him in place before he falls off the bed.

"Alfie?" Sirius gasps out. He isn't in the hill anymore. This is his room, he is in bed, a thunderstorm is raging outside.

"Breathe— it was only a bad dream."

"But it _hurts_ , Merlin, oh _Merlin_ , I'm going to bleed to death, _make it stop_!"

"There's nothing, Sirius. Believe me," Alfie insists, and Sirius stops struggling, looks down at himself, chest heaving. Pats himself down for good measure. "It was a dream. Drink, lad." A hot something is pressed against his lips, and he gulps it down, still reeling, half expecting Alfie to vanish, to be replaced by _her_. Half expecting to look down at himself again and see nothing but blood and gore as he bleeds to death, doomed to carry those words for all eternity on him as a ghost.

.

* * *

.

By breakfast time, he's barely awake enough to stand upright, and Alfie is seriously considering keeping him in bed, at least for today. They both know what it would mean, however, and though neither of them says it, they know a day off is just not an option right now. Sirius shakes his head, claims all he needs is a minute— But he needs so much more than a minute, and he doesn't get even that.

It's barely eight when he _must_ stand up, and more, as the news reaches him: All the Blacks got pranked — though "attacked" is the term they choose to use — and they keep getting pranked. The very palace seems to be waging war on them.

When Sirius arrives at breakfast, pumped full of potions and still in last night's clothes, the table is occupied only by 75 out of the original 120 family members; they keep having trouble taking their baths, or even getting out of bed — the bedclothes seem to be alive and trap them — some woke up covered in boils, and yet others are wrestling robes that don't seem to want to stay on. Others are simply nowhere to be found.

"It is one of the most haunted places in Britain," Sirius tells them with a very straight face, "why does any of this surprise you at all?"

Bellatrix leaves the moat around nine in the morning, having found it impossible to get out of bed sooner — and gets stung by a swarm of Billywigs that are now living in the walls, so she keeps floating around helplessly, cursing and shivering and out of commission for the time being; Ursus and Aquila beg off breakfast at the last minute— they were caught in the shocking spells outside their door, courtesy of a still angry Sirius. MacNair and Wilkes don't fare much better — they are in bed, covered with nasty-smelling tubers nobody has managed to identify yet. Ophelia Burke-Black suspects it is a sort of plague and insists they be quarantined.

The rest of the family has had to battle the nipping toilet seats, regurgitating toilets, doors that not only slam shut at random, but also change locations so they get trapped in their rooms, or get lost getting anywhere due to the walls that randomly rearrange themselves.

Sirius looks around at the chaos reigning around him for a long moment; he takes in the alarmed yelling and screeching and cursing that travels down the corridors and halls, his fingers twitching uncontrollably at his side, and shudders despite himself.

Then he decides it's high time for his Full English.

Thus begins the third day of Orion's funeral.

 _Tomorrow is Saturday,_ Sirius reminds himself, as he marches outside to meet the reporters before they enter the house, to give the fifty-odd Blacks who are still able enough time to hide their near-hysterical relatives from view. He lets the younger Blacks give all the interviews, which they get to with gusto.

As he is making yet another statement about werewolves — "They didn't ask to get bitten, did they, so why punish them for an accident?" — and is invited to a Chudley Cannons match the following week, he hears nine- and ten-year-old siblings Eridanus and Cepheus Black exclaim excitedly: "The ghosts have taken over! They're spreading plague, and moving the walls around, and making people get undressed, or get lost, or float!" And then they both pull up their trousers with satisfaction and offer the kind reporter a "look-see".

Sirius believes the next generation has potential.

The morning viewing is visited by more of the wizarding world's rich and famous, but given Orion's nauseating effect, it is short-lived, and most of the visitors don't bother coming in, and pay their respects to him in the lawn. Sirius isn't sure who is more grateful: he or the visitors themselves.

.

* * *

.

Shortly before lunch, some of the last visitors arrive. Heavy as the air is down here, they bring with them a breath of fresh air.

"Sirius!"

Sirius actually grins, then looks left and right almost furtively, the white-blue flames of the torches around the bier containing his father's corpse reflecting in his too-wide eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Sirius asks, overjoyed.

"Paying our respects," says James, ignoring Orion altogether. "It's tradition, you know."

"Oh yeah, I've heard all about that," Sirius answers, nodding at the Potters coming in at a slow stroll, their heads cleverly stuck in bubblehead charms.

"How are you holding up?" James asks. Sirius' smile becomes fixed. He looks down, then shrugs. When he looks up again, he's got a crooked smile on his face.

"Alright, I guess. The company's rather better now than it's been in days."

"When are you coming back?" James wants to know.

"I don't know," Sirius answers. He finds it so strange, to talk about something as far removed from his mind as school. Quidditch games, classes, homework — all that has been effectively wiped from Sirius's mind. It feels like a distant memory, something from another life. "Before…" he racks his brain, which helpfully provides a calendar. "Before Christmas, I hope. This should be over by the Yule." One way or another.

"We'll be waiting for you," James promises, as the Potters approach. "We've been transfiguring stuff into flowers. Have you gotten it?"

"They burn everything that comes from Gryffindor House," Sirius tells him. James curses under his breath. Sirius finds that, "It's the thought what counts."

"What happened to him?" Coop asks peering inside the stone coffin with a grimace. Next to him, James's mum stares at Orion's leftovers.

"Natural causes," Sirius replies. "Let me know if you need a puke bucket, vomiting on the carcass is not encouraged at this time. As far as corpses go, this one's a bit rank."

He isn't even joking, and when James and his parents peer into the coffin, they have to agree. What's inside is vaguely man-shaped, smells like rotten roast… and though an attempt has clearly been made to reassemble Orion Black, there wasn't much to work with. Three days later, it's showing.

"We are terribly sorry, my boy," James' father is saying in the background. "And though he will no longer be around, you can count on us for anything you need." Sirius finds, this is the first promise of support he can actually believe.

"Thank you, Mr. P," says Sirius, and he is sincere enough, because the Potters don't insist. They have a certain perception of things, and Sirius isn't about to go changing it. What he's dealing with, they can't help him with.

"Do you miss him terribly?" Mrs. Potter asks. Sirius waggles his head, gives her a small smile.

"I do," he admits, then locks eyes with James. "But my aim is improving."

.

* * *

.

That afternoon, the viewing ends in time for an early tea. After another bath, Sirius doesn't even try to go to sleep this time. Whatever Bellatrix did, it's not limited to the bed, and though the ghosts gave him very good pointers, unless they find all the hex bags, Sirius can kiss his good night's rest goodbye.

It would be bad enough if that were the only thing plaguing him; but every corner he turns, every time he gets distracted, it's as though reality itself morphs into a waking nightmare. It's not something that escalates, it's just random… there's no telling what will happen. All Sirius can be sure of, is that it's never good.

He fights to remain alert. Keeps a detailed count of what is going on exactly, what and who is where and doing what. Any little detail can give it away, and he gets very good at spotting the differences, very fast.

He'll cross a doorway and feel like he's walked into a spiderweb, that's how it starts sometimes; the room will be dark when it's light out, his head will spin and he'll feel lightheaded. A painting will be all wrong, or just a bunch of smudges of paint. A book will be gone from a shelf— sometimes the place will have great detail, other times, books will be blank, their spines without titles. Not unlike props at a play.

But when he walks into a room where there's suddenly something _normal_ going on — Transfiguration class, or Charms, or Defence — that's harder to shake off, because he craves to be back in school. When James comes up to him and tells him he's late for Quidditch training. When he opens his eyes and he's in his bed at Hogwarts, that's the worst. It all feels so _real_ , even when he's pelted by Bludgers, it feels real. When James falls off his broomstick and breaks his neck, it feels real. When the ceiling in the Great Hall caves in on them, it feels real. When he is dying at his cousin's hands, her loathed giggle in his ears, it feels real, too real to simply shake off.

And that's what this is, isn't it? A horror feature, just for him. An alternate reality, designed to wear him out, something he hasn't yet managed to cancel, except by spotting the differences and yanking himself out, only to stumble into the next illusion moments later.

The Dog in him helps; it's like he's got a built-in alarm system. Scents, even emotions, are easy for him to pinpoint, and the illusions smell of sulphur, of rotten eggs, of farts. Of magic of the Darkest kind, the sort not even Bellatrix has a handle on.

If not her, though, then _who_ is doing this?

Not even the ghosts had a clue.

He spends the afternoon doing something different for a change; this isn't like signing hundreds of thank-you letters in response to everyone who sent condolences by owl. This is actually fun, in a twisted sort of way.

Today, he gets to give away Father's things, and while Mother claims over half for herself, he makes both a bunch of greedy Blacks and himself very happy.

He gives Alphard the magical deed to Black Lodge, which Father apparently held over his head for years, even if Alfie has stayed there on and off since he was a boy, and he loves the place. And Mother gets to keep Grimmauld Place, nothing else. She is furious at his decision, demands at least to keep another manor, rants at him that Blackheath Row should go to her.

"No," he informs her calmly, enjoying her expression of utter disgust and loathing, the way her mouth pulls ever so slightly into a grimace, as though she has smelled the foulest stench to plague mankind. She looks quite ready to rip his head off and drink her double dirty martini from his skull. "Call yourself lucky I'm letting you keep that accursed place, Mother. You can have either one, but not both."

"How _dare_ you? It is the house of my Fathers!" she hisses, her anger barely contained.

"And I could just as easily turn it into a cafe for Muggles," Sirius replies. "It's perfectly located. Your choice, Lady Black."

And isn't this the perfect payback?

Sirius hands some properties out, others he loans, and he makes very short work of executing the more private portion of Father's estate. The rest is handled by Gringott's Goblins. Father's personal collection of artifacts and books, Sirius keeps, with the intention to burn it if he manages to survive the next ten days.

When he goes to preside over dinner a little later, he is in a celebratory mood: Alfie hasn't been idle. He has found and disabled all hex bags, cast other charms to ward their wing of the palace, and swears up and down that tonight, he'll manage to rest properly.

Best of all is, he won't have to go to Blackmore Hill again until tomorrow.

That night, for the first time in almost a week, Sirius sleeps like the dead, quite unbothered by the ongoing pandemonium that has gripped the rest of the palace, where the rest of the Blacks are having the worst night of their lives.

.

* * *

.

The burial takes place after lunch on Saturday, and for the first time in ages, Sirius feels truly confident that his plan — if he can even call it that — will work out.

He is feeling better than he has all week as he joins his utterly miserable, exhausted and frankly woebegone family for his morning pep talk — "Just think, that Wizarding Family of the Year Award is all but in your pockets!" — and welcomes the doddering old Arch Druid for the burial ceremony. After that, the Succession ritual will all but be in the bag.

He still sees his father standing in the ebony-panelled corridors when he least expects it, still randomly walks into rooms that have no business existing in Blackmore End, but the Dog in him helps him discern hallucinations from reality and it becomes something like second nature incredibly fast.

After lunch, Sirius heads up the procession with the old Arch Druid, followed by his mother and brother and Alfie. Behind them follow all the other Blacks, who somehow manage to fit in the small vault for the last words and blessings bestowed on Orion, who is — thankfully — inside the closed stone coffin. It takes Sirius a while to process that they must have taken down the magical suppression wards for this.

"We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to a very important, influential member of wizarding society. For over four decades, Orion Rigel Saiph IV has stood for what matters most to our community…"

The Arch Druid drones on and on, about how much Orion Black will be missed, and Sirius finds himself rendered sleepy once more, by the incense, the thick sweetish air, the heat of a hundred bodies crammed into the vault, the torches burning hot. It lulls him into a heavy sort of daze, and he only realises the whole thing is over when Alfie gestures for him to cast Gubraithian Fire on the torches, to provide light to his deceased father for eternity.

"He won't need light ever again," Sirius argues without much enthusiasm. Gods, he's sleepy.

"We took the wards down, just for this. After everyone leaves, you are to light the torches and then seal the vault," Alfie reminds him, then pats him on the shoulder. "I'll start getting everything ready for the Successio Ritual," he adds, as Mother ushers the rest outside, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She gives him a glance — just one, and Sirius's stomach twists itself into knots. He is very wary of it, but he has no choice but to go ahead and do it. If they seal him in, at least he knows how to get out again— he'll just be quick about it, leg it out of here before anything else happens.

"Sirius? Aren't you coming?" Regulus asks. He hasn't moved from his spot by the stone coffin. It's almost as if he, too, feels something is the matter.

"I'll be right behind you," Sirius promises, flashes his brother the same sort of smile he reserves for the press, turns to light the stupid torches— what was the damned spell for Gubraithian Fire again?

Bellatrix is the last to leave. She leans in on him, too close for comfort, gives him a dazzling smile.

"Goodbye, baby cousin," she whispers, then pushes Regulus outside.

"Run," says a voice.

"Quick, get out of here!" says another. Sirius is sure that's Sirius. He's never heard the ghosts during the day. Sirius turns, lunges for the vault door, but it grinds shut in his face the instant Bellatrix's robes whip through the doorway. He leaps towards the lever— but it's spelled shut. Sirius tries to cast detection spells— but there is a hiss next, and all air is sucked out from the suddenly tiny stone chamber.

Panicking, Sirius pushes at the stone door— there is a sudden roar, a rumble that comes from the other side.

Everything shifts, like an earthquake, and the next instant, Sirius is thrown up in the air, blasted backwards along with the stone slab he has been trying to open. He is thrown against the overturned stone coffin, lands on top of the stinking rotting body, tries to blindly scramble out as the slab comes crashing down on top of him, along with what feels like the entire hill.

Dust flies up and Sirius tries to cover his head as rocks and rubble rain on him in the pitch blackness, engulfing him in smoke, confusion, pain, and he cries out in distress— His back feels wet, his nostrils are filled with the smell of rot, of death, of fire and dust and incense, as the sheer weight of the rocks presses in on him, crushing mercilessly down and punching all the air out of his lungs.

The last thing Sirius registers, is his father's laughter in his ears, the impossibly heavy weight of the slab on him, the sheer amount of dust and dirt that keeps shifting, shaking along with the entire mausoleum— and for some reason, he glimpses the faces of a handful of Gryffindors, hands extended to receive the platters of treats he's smuggled for them from the school Kitchens.

Sirius? James speaks in his mind, but Sirius can't answer. He is aware of the darkness that is eating up his already limited perception, of his racing heartbeat that makes him feel giddy, of how much it hurts to breathe.

And then, nothing.

.

* * *

.

TBC, sometime in the near future.

From now until then, why not tell me what you think? It helps a lot!

* * *

 **Next up:** Near-Death experiences are had, James returns and Remus gets a cameo, Walburga gets blasted, and Sirius is caught between a rock and a hard place.


End file.
